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THINGS THAT HAVEINTERESTED ME

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THE SINEWS OK WAR: A ROMANCETHE STATUE: A ROMANCE

;


BY

ARNOLD BENNETT

LONDONCHATTO & WINDUS

1921

\

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NOTE^rv

Chronological order has not been followed in

the arrangement of this book ; but in every case

where it seemed advisable to date an item, the

date has been added.

In 1906 and 1907 I printed privately and

issued to friends two small volumes of un-

published matter entitled respectively 'Things

that Interested Me and Things which have In-

terested Me. Neither of them contains anything

which is included in the present work.

)^\PrVl J

CONTENTS

Operatic Performances

Jerry Oxford ....The Old Fellows and the New

In Calais Harbour during Mobilisation

A Great Responsibility

Women at War-Work .

*' Funny Stories''

Grimness and Optimism

The Appeal to Providence

The Rosenkavalierj

Translating Literature into

After Asquith

More Efficient Housekeeping

The Barber

Sacking

Bicarbonate of Soda

-The Casino Ball .

Dinner of the Syndicate of

Paris .

Going down a Coal-pit .

Self-C(^ntrol

Rationing Petrol

durand ruel

Football Match .

Life

Literary Critics,

I

6

lO

i6

24

27

30

35

39

40

42

46

50

52

60

62

64

67

69

72

73

75

77

vn

CONTENTS

Psychology of Russia .

Railway Accident at Mantes

The Paper-Shortage

The Patriot's Reward .

Style ....Finishing Books .

Politics and Morals

Flag-Days .

Privilege of Dogma

The Royal Academy

Gaming ....A Judgment

Plate-breaking .

The Truth about Revolutions

A General....Ministerial Candour .

What is Wrong with the Theatre.?

The Farmer's Attitude

Freedom of Discussion .

Wacner after the War

Charity Carnivals

A Legal Banquet

Musical Composers who get a Hearing

Free-Handedness

Hardships of the Ruling Class

Caillaux ....viii

CONTENTS

Teaching History

FOR AND AGAINST PROHIBITION .

HiNDLE Wakes

Hotel Mornings .

ENGLISH SOCIETY IN THE NINETIES

Certain Profiteers

Brains and Eating

A Transatlantic View .

After th^ March Offensive

The Royal Academy Again

J. G. Bennett

^-Portuguese Streets

^'Saccharine

The Jockey Club

Balzac's Technique

Tailoring .

A First Night

TjHE Inquisition on "Seasons"

Interpreting the Gospel

International

The Siege of Paris

Madsen Gun Rumours .

Fatigue . • • '

The Railway Guide

> Pavlova at the Palace.

Echo de Paris .

ix

PAGB

136

141

147

149

152

154

160

163

165

167

170

171

174

176

178

180

183

186

, 188

. 189

. 190

CONTENTS

A Canadian Banquet

Slump in Pessimism

Short Stories

Byron on the Stage

Coupons

The Merry WwoivTravel and Politics

-^ Pro-Germanism

FOCH

Miscellaneous Reading

Prayer

Respect for Brains

Egyptology

Play-licensing

Rostand

The Cornet at Elections

Two Generals

An Officer's Grievance

At a Public Dinner

Life of a Girl .

The Octogenarian

Morphia

Prophylaxis

At the Quai d'Orsay Terminus, Paris

Street Cries

After the Armistice

PAGE

198

200

203

207

209

212

215

216

218

22 I

223

226

228

229

230

232

234

236

238

240

243

244

CONTENTS


OPERATIC PERFORMANCESI HAVE never seen a reasonably good all-

round performance of grand opera. Neverthe-

less, though not a melomaniac, I am extremely

fond of grand opera, and have seen it in the

following cities : Antwerp, Brussels, Florence,

Ghent, Hanley, Lisbon, London, Milan, NewYork,

Paris, Ostend, Philadelphia, Rome, San Remo,and others which I cannot recall. If operatic

performances succeed in several particulars, as

they sometimes do—though rarely in more than

one—they always fail in at least one particular,

generally in several, sometimes in all. The best

show I ever saw anywhere on the operatic stage

was a performance of Le Mariage de Figaro in

English at Drury Lane under Sir ThomasBeecham. The production had been super-

intended by Nigel Playfair. The translation

was quite neat, and often very witty indeed.

The acting was good. There was an ensemble.

The scenery was not really good, but it was so

immensely better than ordinary scenery in

A I

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED ME

world-renowned opera-houses that it gave the

illusion of being good. I was as well satisfied

hy this affair as by a faulty performance of

Strauss's absolutely enchanting Rosenkavalier at

Covent Garden : which is saying a great deal.

It would be impossible for me to decide whichwas the worst show I ever saw— the choice

would be too embarrassing. But it occurred

certainly in either Paris, Milan, or London. I

know that after a performance of Siegfried at the

Paris Opera House I took an oath never again to

enter the Paris Opera House. It was all bad,

but especially the scenery and the " production"

were horrible. I broke my oath, because the

Russian ballet chose to begin its West-Europeancareer at the Paris Opera House, and I attended.

After a pre-war performance of Parsifal at

Covent Garden I took an oath never again to

enter Covent Garden. The flower-maidens'

garden and the costumes and antics of the flower-

maidens must count among the foulest andmost ghastly artistic outrages in the history of

music. I had to close my eyes ; I slept. I

broke my Covent Garden oath because of Strauss.

All the standard operas ought to be re-" pro-

duced," and their stage traditions entirely

demolished, by somebody fairly abreast of the

craft of modern play-producing. They oughtproperly to be re-" produced " by the creative

producers who have made the Russian ballet

;

but one must not ask for too much.

The methods of the Russian ballet appear as

OPERATIC PERFORMANCES

yet to have had no influence at all on French,

English, American, or Italian productions.

Imagine what the Russian ballet people mightdo with Tannhduser, Don Juan, Faust, Tristan !

Operatic performances frequently give ravishing

pleasure to the ear, but they always, always,

always offend the eye ; and they offend the

reason. Operatic scenery, for instance, is morethan ugly ; it is ridiculous. When architecture

is given, the architecture is manifestly impossible.

No architecture could conceivably exist with the

plans and elevations of the palaces, cottages, andcabarets of the operatic stage. The same withgardens, forests, rocky crags, and desert places.

There is no technical excuse for this. Nor is

there any technical excuse for the operatic mis-

management of lighting and grouping. Thetruth is that operatic mismanagers are obsessed

by the music, and they leave everything else to

people who are either dead and have forgotten

to get themselves buried, or who don't know the

elements of their job. I do not underestimate

the tremendous difficulties of operatic production,

but I do assert that the importing of commonsense, comeliness, and logic into operatic produc-tion would lessen and not magnify those diffi-

culties.

There is one difficulty, however, that only

the progress of medical science can remove.Either a predisposition to obesity goes withvocal capacity, or singing has a marked andfrightful tendency to produce obesity in singers.

3


I do not know which. The whole question is

very mysterious. The obesity of male singers

can be borne by the opera-goer with relative

equanimity, but the obesity of women on the

stage is a real affliction for the sensitive opera-

goer. Much discretion is needed for the dis-

cussion of this subject. Stout sopranos are not

criminals, though I know opera-goers who wouldviolently refer to them as such. They are victims,

who fight in vain against their unkind fate.

Nothing can at present be done, for to put all

obesity out of business in opera would be nearly

to annihilate the profession. Yet in some cases

licence is carried too far. Last night I saw a

vast woman, a highly accomplished singer with

a long and honourable career behind her, in a

part which demanded grace and physical charm.

As the beloved of a very young and very slight

creature she had constantly to say things whichin the most cruel manner rendered her grotesque,

and the climax came when she had to disguise

herself and be mistaken for a mere girl. Manymembers of the audience, screened in darkness,

smiled and laughed to one another. Every scene

in which she appeared, and especially the scenes

of comedy, took on a horrid humour whichnobody intended. The opera was ruined. If

this lady accepted a mere offer of the role, then

both she and the mismanagers were to blame.

If the role was forced upon her, then the mis-

managers were solely to blame. Anyhow, the

result was excruciating to the sensitive. Ofcourse, the case was extremely exceptional. But

4

OPERATIC PERFORMANCES

all cases of obesity are gravely regrettable. Doesone Venus in twenty look the part, even fromthe distance of the farthest gallery ? I think I

have only seen one really slim Venus in my life;

and what a marvellous difference she made to

Tannh'duser !

JERRY OXFORDA pronounced Jew type ; aged about sixty.

He had been living alone in the hotel for months.He said he had made nearly thirty voyages to

distant colonies, and two voyages round the

world, and that he had visited every civilised

country. Then he spoke of his younger sons

at Eton and Harrow, and of his various clubs." Money was no object to me at one time,"

he said, not conceitedly, but rather naively,

attractively. He must be naive. He is con-

vinced that Carnegie gave a million pounds to

the Liberal Party funds, and that this moneyhad enabled the Party to win general elections.

Yes, I think his chief characteristic must be

naivete ; he would be very startled if I told himI thought so. He mentioned his book, A Dish of

Chesnuts : by one who has gathered them, beguna quarter of a century ago and never finished.

His friends are constantly stopping him to

inquire :" Jerry [' My name is Gerald, but

everyone calls me Jerry '], when is that book of

yours coming out ?" His excuse for the delay

over the book is that he can't write. He says

he can talk. To make a speech is no trouble

to him. He has no nerves. To speechify,

impromptu, on any topic, for any given length

of time, is as easy to him as walking across a

room.

He proceeds :" I am a good speaker. I have

no difficulty because I am a good raconteur,

6

JERRY OXFORD

and a very good mimic. Then I have invention.

I tell 70U a tale now. You hear me tell that

tale in a fortnight and you wouldn't recognise

it." He says all this quite simply and naturally,

with an air of perfect impartiality. He talks

in a mild voice, very correctly and fluently,

using all sorts of cliches with a certain elegance.

The truth is that he is tedious, but you do not

realise it at the moment owing to his excellent

delivery and the variety of his experiences.

He will invent apropos incidents, and assert

that they really happened and even that he has

just witnessed them. We went to an orchestral

concert together—^he is unquestionably fond of

music—and there was a break-down. He in-

stantly told us that the first violin was a friend

of his and had confided to him that the conductor

coulc not read music and that a break-downwas bound to occur. He went further and told

us that at the moment of the break-down the

first \iolin signed to him, as if to say :" You see.

It has happened." Quite probably he does

know the first violin.

Talking about the baronial X family, he said

that :he previous Lord X had every happiness

and that he (Jerry) had envied him for years.

Then Lord X's boys, one after the other, weredismised from Eton [" where my son was "] for

stealiig. Jerry then saw that nobody was to be

enviec, and recalled his old father's tale to the

effect that once upon a time every man wasordered to hang his trouble on a line, and then

7

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEevery man was ordered to chose any trouble

from the line, and then every man took back his

own. And so on in this vein.

Years later he met the present Lord X andwalked in the Park with him. The next day a

friend stopped him and said :" Hello, Jerry

!

You choose your friends well. Saw you walking

yesterday with that damned thief X."" Damned thief ?

"

" Well, wasn't he expelled from Eton for

stealing a fiver ?"

It appears that after the second X boy wasdismissed the headmaster called the school

together and explained the reason for the dis-

missal. A lady present with me protested

against this act of the headmaster's. ThenJerry :

" A schoolmaster must know much better

than anybody else—I say it with the greatest

respect [here a faint coarse smile]—even thanyou, how to treat boys."

Here was an instance of the coarseness whichsometimes pierces through his bland urbanity.

My theory is that he fairly successfully imposedthe urbanity on himself many years ago.

He told me a funny story about two Jews." Husband and wife of the Hebrew persuasion,"

he said condescendingly, just as if I was incipable

of perceiving that he has Jew written all over

him.

He urged me to go to his favourite Colony.

Fine climate ! And a great deal to be done8

JERRY OXFORD

there in the way of fiction ! Brisk demand for

literature !" I may tell you that as a literary

man you would be received with special attention.

I should be happy to give you introductions, andmy daughter and her husband would look after

you, see you were all right everywhere." Thenhe offered me his card, which was gilt-edged.

He was equally naive about medicine. He said

to me with pitying condescension :" Do you

"still take bicarbonate of soda for indigestion ?

I've got about twelve pounds I can give you. I

used to take it in spoonfuls. Now I take hemo-globin, two after each meal. You must try

homoglobin. In a few days you'll be able to eat

what you like. Wonderful thing ! Wonderful !

"

He was apparently convinced that homoglobinwould furnish me with a new stomach. Hegave me a lot of homoglobin. He said with

genuine glee that the retail price was a shilling

a dozen, but that he got them from the manu-facturers at is. 3d. per gross. He was notably

polite.

THE OLD FELLOWSAND THE NEW

I WAS walking along the road from Cascaes to

Mont Estoril when an Englishman passing in

the opposite direction called out to me, with a

wave of the hand heavenwards :" Rather like a

Bonington sky, that, don't you think ? " A nice

kind of greeting to get in Portugal ! I hadspoken to this Englishman only once before. I

knew nothing whatever of him, except that,

having questioned me about something curious

in my sketching-case, he was interested in water-

colour apparatus and was probably an amateurhimself. I stopped, and in two seconds he told

me that he was the possessor of a couple of

Boningtons. I marched close up to him andsaid in an intimate tone :

" Do you mean to say

that you've got two Boningtons ? " That I wasimpressed delighted him. I demanded how long

he had had them, where he bought them, andeven what he paid for them. He answered quite

freely, and gave me a tip about a certain dealer." And what's more," he said, " I think

Bonington's the finest English landscape artist,

bar none. Better than de Wint, better thanGirtin, better than Turner."

" But what about Crome ?"

The suggestion shook him." Ah ! I meant water-colourists."

Unfortunately I never thought to put himto the test of Cotman.

lo

THE OLD FELLOWS AND THE NEWHowever, he could scarcely have belonged to

the secret society of Cotmanists, or he wouldnot have placed Bonington first. I once wentinto an artist's studio and said casually, indi-

cating a sepia sketch on the distant opposite

wall :" Is that a Cotman ?

" It was. I neededno further credential. A bond was created.

(Similarly will a bond be created if you ask a

man where is the finest modern English prose

and he replies : "In The Revolution in Tanner's

Lane.'''') To my taste, finer water-colours byCotman are hidden in portfolios upstairs in the

British Museum than any that Turner did in his

glittering maturity. I cannot forget my corroding

disappointment when I first saw at Agnew's a

collection of the more celebrated Turner pieces,

such as " The Red Righi." True, Turner's

water-colours are a proof of the absurdity of the

maxim that a good water-colour is an accident

;

but they are far too virtuous—in the sense of

virtuosity. They amount to a circus. Delicate

as they are, they bang everything with such a

prodigious bang that after seeing them you feel

the need of aspirin and repose. Now evenTurner did not know more perfectly and pro-

foundly what he was doing with brushes andtints on a bit of damp paper than Cotman.Cotman puts the washes on once for all—andsuch washes—but it does not occur to him to

give a " performance." Cotmans are dear ; theywill be dearer ; I have a hope that buyers

of Turners for the rise will drop money.

II


My friend on the road held, and I agreed,

that Copley Fielding would soon be coming a

cropper in the sale-rooms. He recounted howa Copley Fielding had recently fetched twelve

hundred guineas at Christie's and immediately

been resold on the spot for fifteen hundred. I

remember buying a good average Copley Field-

ing in Brighton for five pounds. A pleasing

thing, but extravagantly accompHshed. CopleyFielding grew into a performer, like Turner,

though qua performer he must not be mentionedin the same breath with the mysterious man whoacknowledged a superior in Girtin. It wasfortunate for Turner that Girtin died early.

He might have knocked spots off Turner. Andwhile I am about the matter, I may as well say

that I doubt whether Turner was well-advised

in having his big oil-paintings hung alongside

of Claude's in the National Gallery. The ordeal

was the least in the world too severe for them.Still, I would not deny that Turner was a very

great person. Bits of the foregoing came into

my conversation with the man on the road. Hewas a collector. " I go in for all these old

fellows." We catalogued most of the big British

names in water-colour, threading them rapidly

on a string of appreciation. In three minutes

we had esteemed the old fellows, and we went"

on our ways full of an obscure and naive pleasure

in the encounter. Hobbyists are very simple-

minded. I did not know his name, nor whether

he was an opponent of the " insidious poHcy of

mine nationalisation," nor whether his own12

THE OLD FELLOWS AND THE NEWsketches were worse even than mine, nor any-

thing about him except that he was a great

prophet of Bonington in Portugal. As such he

had established himself in my heart.

Nevertheless there was also a worm in myheart. He " went in for all those old fellows "

;

but I had not dared to ask him about the

new fellows, who were.

painting and expecting

customers at the very moment of our conversa-

tion. Was he equally enthusiastic for the newfellows ? Or did he imitate in the graphic

arts Mr. Augustine Birrell's confessed practice

of marking the publication of a new book byreading an old one ? Would he have bought

Boningtons while Bonington was alive and

innovating ? I was afraid to risk the test. Notthat I would have tried him too hard—^with

the newest names and the most impudent pro-

cesses. No, I would have been content to

mention stars already fixed. But suppose I

had asked him about Cezanne's water-colours

(though I am not mad for them), and he hadreplied that he seemed to have heard the name ?

Suppose I had asked him about Rodin's water-

colours, and he had lowered the portcullis of his

collector's face ? He might have disapproved

of Wilson Steer's water-colours, though they

are as sure of immortality as any Bonington

that was ever collected. He might have ruined

our fragile acquaintance by declaring that

Brabazon was a passing fad of certain professional

13


painters who wanted a foil and a toy. I could

not have borne that.

Brabazon in his old age became the prince

of sketchers-from-nature ; but sketchers-from-

nature were characteristically slow in perceiving

this. For years, despite the grim and august

praise of Mr. John Sargent, Brabazon's sketches

could be bought anywhere for twenty guineas.

I do believe that I was the last man to buy a

Brabazon at that price. The transaction occurred

a few days before the first appearance of Bra-

bazons at Christie's. About a dozen sketches

were catalogued together in a sale. Dealers

protested that they had no idea what the stuff

might fetch. The stuff might fetch anything

or nothing. It had never had an " official

"

price. I commissioned a dealer to go up to

twenty guineas apiece on my behalf. The stuff

went for fifties and sixties ; and, like a goodmany other people, I was both delighted anddisappointed. I wanted Brabazons to rise ; but

I wanted Brabazons. Brabazon should be the

model to all sketchers-from-nature. He didn't

formally " paint "; he sketched. His aim was

the general effect. In my opinion his " Taj

Mahal " is the finest water-colour sketch ever

done. He probably did it in about a quarter

of an hour. It is a marvel of simplification, andsimplification is what Mr. Clement K. Shorter,

if he sketched, would undoubtedly term " the

great desideratum " of the sketcher-from-nature.

It is the most difficult thing in that world. It is

H

THE OLD FELLOWS AND THE NEWthe kill-joy of my existence. The captain of a

passenger ship which had called at Oporto once

told me that he was summoned in the night to

a raving passenger. This passenger had been

visiting the incredible " wine-lodges " of the

district during the day. He lay in an upperberth kicking the ceiling and exclaiming in an

agonised voice :" Millions of bottles ! Millions

of bottles !" Similarly, but with more decency

and perhaps still more divine despair, may I be

heard crying in the night, after a day of inglorious

sketching :" Simplification ! Simplification !

"

15

IN CALAIS HARBOUR DURINGMOBILISATIONWhen, on Sunday at noon, we threw a rope to

a loafer on the outer quay of the smack-basin in

Calais harbour, the loafer, as soon as he had madeit fast and assured us that we were in a goodposition and received a franc, climbed down the

iron rungs of the ladder in the wall, so as to be

closer to us, and said :

" That is going badly, the war."

Prone by nature and training to reject all

rumours of a startling kind, I replied that I hopedthat " that " would arrange itself.

"Nevertheless," said he, shrugging his shoulders," the general mobilisation has begun."

This was real news to me. I had had nonesince the early editions of Saturday afternoon.

I had waited all Saturday in Dover harbour,

which was full of men-of-war, for some sort of

reasonable weather to allow me to move ontowards Cowes, whither I was bound. And it

had been a gloomy day, in spite of the sunshine

and in spite of the bright crowds and the bandon the esplanade. It seemed to be monstrous,

then, that the glory of Cowes Regatta should be

even impaired by fears of war. (That the Regatta

might be wiped entirely off the Calendar did

not occur to me, because it was unthinkable.)

Soldiers and sailors had a peculiar air of import-

ance and busy-ness. A group of officers and

men manoeuvring the immense iron booms for

closing the eastern entrance to the harbour

i6

IN CALAIS HARBOUR

might have been a hierarchy rearranging the

swing of the solar universe. Another group of

officers went out of the harbour on a harbour-

tug, and cruised to and fro—and me after themin a dinghy !—and returned with great mystery

;

and what they were doing on a harbour-tug

none could say. A royal train came on the pier

and debarked mysterious personages. Whom ?

I guessed that the train bore the Empress Dowagerof Russia, and I was right ; but at the time one

was more inclined to believe in the dispatch of

another special peace envoy. One instinctively

related every phenomenon observed to the

theory of the chances of war. If one saw a

soldier with a girl, one said :" There can't be

any real fear of war or he wouldn't be gallivanting

with that girl," And instantly afterwards one

said :" War is a certainty—he's taking leave

of her."

This absurd rationality had coloured the

whole of one's secret mental life. At Dover a

harbour clock striking at night had had the very

ring of destiny, and as for a tramp steamer

suddenly blowing off steam—its effect on the

nerves was appalling. So that, although con-

vinced that there would be no general Europeanwar, I had determined on Saturday at midnight

that, wherever I spent Sunday, I would not

spend it in Dover harbour.

In response to the perhaps justifiable curiosity

of the Dover harbour-official on watch as to mydestination, I had stated as we passed out on

B 17


Sunday morning that I did not know my destina-

tion. Our hope was to reach towards the Frenchcoast and then beat up towards Dungeness

;

failing that, to make Boulogne ; failing Boulogne,

Calais. My skipper had shown hesitations about

entering any foreign country, but I had reassured

him.

The sequel was Calais, and in a gale of wind !

We could not possibly have made Boulogne.

And then, after the risk of being smashed against

one of the piers on entering, to be told that the

general mobilisation had begun ! Moreover, the

high wind was carrying the dust and litter fromall the streets of Calais and depositing it on mydecks. And straw hats, pursued by men, were

travelling at terrific speeds along the quays. I

thought :" I may be weather-bound here for

a week." Two years ago I had been weather-

bound at Boulogne for a week in the height of

summer. The fact is, the Channel is no place

for yachting.

Then the health officers came aboard, climbing

gingerly down the ladder. One was about

forty-five and the other about thirty, and both

were serious, respectable, urbane men. I invited

them into the saloon to transact business. Withall their calm they were much more exciting

than the shore-loafer. In the space of about a

minute they told me that a German paper-

factory in the town had closed down and its

manager fled ; that no newspapers whatever

were to be had in Calais ; that the French packets

I?

IN CALAIS HARBOUR

were to be at once suppressed ; that there wasa train service only to Paris—and that very

restricted ; that all foreign money had ceased

to circulate, except English ; that English andFrench torpedo boats had performed evolutions

in company outside the harbour ; that mineswere to be laid ; that fishing had almost stopped

;

that pilotage was stopped ; that the customsofficers had gone ; that the German and Russian

armies were in contact ; and that a ship entering

Calais harbour on the previous day had beencommandeered {confisque, they said) by the

Government.I said I hoped they would not commandeer

me.The older one said :

" Oh no ! You are too small. You are

useless."

Then he most amiably took half a crowninstead of three francs for dues, no doubt in

order to prove that English money still circulated.

We began to talk about the causes of the war.

These two excellent and sensible men seemed to

symbolise the absolute innocence of France in

the affair. They had no desire nor enthusiasmfor a war. They were whole-hearted in their

condemnation of German diplomacy (so much so

that it would have been futile for me to state

my views), but they were by no means whole-hearted in their condemnation of the Germancharacter. Indeed, they at once put a limit

to a rather hasty generalisation of mine framedto soothe them. When I said that the British

19

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEFleet would certainly be placed at the disposal

of France (I was not at all certain of it, but

one talks at random and sentimentally in these

international conversations), they were obviously

reassured ; but when I softly predicted success

for France, the elder one only said gravely :

" I hope you may be right." Nobody could

have been less Chauvinistic than these two.

In the afternoon, friendship having been estab-

lished, they came to see me again, and to assure

me that their receipt for dues gave me the right

to depart whenever I chose. However, I relied

less on their receipt than on the blue ensign

of the British Naval Reserve, which I was en-

titled to fly, and which I kept flying all night,

monstrously contrary to the etiquette of yachts.

•^>

After lunch I went ashore and walked about

in the wind and the dust. Fragments of the" Marseillaise " came down on the wind.

Baggage carts abounded ; also motor-cars. I

read the proclamations on the walls. Themobilisation order, with its coloured flags, wasfairly comprehensive ; it included all liable mennot already with the colours. There was further

a patriotic outburst by the Mayor of Calais,

neatly turned in its grandiloquence ; and, moredisturbing, an announcement to foreigners

ordering them to go instantly and report them-selves to the Mayor, and from him to obtain

permission either to clear out or to remain.

Personally, I ignored this, relying on my blue

ensign. Finally, there was an instruction to

20

IN CALAIS HARBOUR

horse-owners to bring all liable horses to the

centre of the town on Monday morning.

Save for a few uncomfortable submarines,

the harbour and basins were quite quiet. I was

getting too close to the submarines when a

sentry politely asked me to remove myself. I

did so, and went to the station. At the station

there was everything except trains and news-

papers. The two middle-aged dames at the

bookstall told me with firmness and pride that

newspapers existed not for the present in

Calais. Many soldiers were preparing to en-

train ; scarcely a woman could be seen.

I went thence to the enormous beach wherethe Casino and the cabins are, and the dis-

tressing monument to the victims of the

Plumose. Two operatic performances were billed

for that day at the Casino, but I could see nosign of them. Nearly all the scores of cabins

were locked up ; all the bathing-vans were

deserted. People wandered vaguely along the

planks at the top of the beach—here and there

an elegant, too elegant, woman. The high

wind swept violently across the huge expanse

of sand, carrying sand along in interminable

undulating lines that looked like yellow vapour.

A very curious spectacle ! A priest came downin charge of a school of boys. They took off

their shoes and stockings, and against each shoe

the wind immediately raised a hillock of sand.

The priest took off his shoes and stockings andtucked up his skirts. As he entered the water

21


he carefully washed his feet ; it was a wise

action.

Then I went into the town dominated by the

jangle of car-bells. Calais is a picturesque city

;

it is the southernmost outpost of Flemish archi-

tecture on that coast ; the people, too, are a

little Flemish. The cafes were not full—about

half full ; here and there a waiter was serving

in military uniform. The populace was inter-

ested and talkative, but neither gay nor gloomy.

On the faces of only two women did I see

an expression of positive sorrow. The cafes-

chantants were functioning.

Towards nightfall the wind and the dust

dropped. The town grew noisier. The " Mar-seillaise " was multiplied in the air. My skipper

and cook went ashore, and returned with the newsthat in the town they had received an ovation

as British tars.

e>

The next morning it rained heavily. Wecrept out to sea at 4.30, with vitality at its

lowest ebb. Apparently, no one had noticed

us, but at the mouth of the harbour two sub-

marines were uncomfortably in waiting, as

though for ourselves. " What a fool I was to

come here !" I thought. " They may refuse

to let us go." But they didn't. We exchangedsalutes, and I was free. Winds and tides favour-

ing, we made a magnificent passage to Brightling-

sea in exactly ten hours. Once, near the Edin-borough Lightship, we were hailed by a British

torpedo boat, who demanded the yacht's name.22

IN CALAIS HARBOUR

Because he couldn't hear our reply he bore

right down on us. We held up a white life-

belt with the yacht's name thereon in black,

and the torpedo boat, sheering off, gave an

august consent to our continuance. The wholecoast was patrolled. Brightlingsea was pre-

cisely as gay as it always is on every AugustBank Holiday. Not a sign of war. But wehad not dropped anchor ten minutes before mycook, who belongs to the Naval Reserve, received

official notice that he was " wanted." Suchorganisation struck me as being rather good.

" What pay do you get ?" I asked the cook.

" Well, sir," he said, " I don't exactly know.We get a guinea a week drill money, but weshan't get so much now we're called up."

" Then what about your wife and family ?"

• " I don't know, sir."

^ He was moved. Much as I admired the

organisation of the State, I was confirmed in myancient conviction that the Government has

still something to learn as an employer.

^23

\\

A GREAT RESPONSIBILITYIn the ballroom of the Casino, Mrs. V., after

discussing the amount of freedom that oughtto be allowed to her girls, and continuously dis-

agreeing with me, said :" Writers like you and

Mr. Wells have a great responsibility, a very

great responsibility. It is you who are really

the teachers."

I said :" You don't suppose that when I sit

down to write I think to myself :' Now you

have a very great responsibility to the nation andto the younger generation ' ?

"

She admitted that she supposed not, andasked what my attitude of mind was on such

occasions. I said that my only reason for writing

a given thing was that I felt like writing it.

" Ah !" she said. " Some of your books have

been household words in our house for years.

The Human Machine and Literary Taste, and so

on. But there are others—well"

I said that I knew all about her implications,

and that some of my books had got me into

dreadful trouble ; but I couldn't help what somepeople thought, and it didn't influence me.

" But surely you wouldn't care to make vice

attractive !

"

I almost answered that my aim was to showgrandeur and beauty in everything, but I hadmercy on her simplicity, and mumbled I forget

what. Whereupon she remarked with surprising

intelligence :

" But of course you wouldn't consider its

24

A GREAT RESPONSIBILITY

attractiveness or the reverse was any affair of

yours. You only want to put down the truth

as you see it. Still, it's a great responsibility.

Many people have thought that you were playing

down to the public taste."

" It never pays—in England," I said grimly.

She said :" Oh ! I always thought it

did !

"

'' You irc quite wrong," I said. " At least, it

only pays to play down to the public in one way—that is, by being sentimental. If you're senti-

mental you may be as vicious as you please. Butif you can't be sentimental don't touch the

forbidden subjects unless you want to be upagainst the strongest force in England andScotland."

" What's that ?"

" Hypocrisy, of course. English hypocrisy is

bad enough. Scotch is worse."

She concurred, but with her lips only.

Later she said :" A friend of ours came to

see me one morning and said :' I was reading

a pitiable book of Arnold Bennett's last night.'"

(I knew without her telling me that the reference

was to The Pretty Lady.) " He was very distressed

indeed. You see, some of your books have given

us intense pleasure, the most intense pleasure.' Yes,' he said, ' a pitiable book ! I read it

because I felt it was my duty to read it.''" (My

italics. He would probably read Justine andUEducation de Laure from a sense of duty.)

I said : " He didn't understand the book."

She demurred : " Oh ! I think he understood

25


it. I'm sure he did. He^s a very high literary

authority in Edinburgh.'''^

The lady was beginning to exhaust my strength,

so I merely retorted that I should go on writing

whatever I wanted to write, and people wouldhave to stick it. " I mean to write a book next

year that will make you sit up. You needn't

read it, of course, but of course you will."

" Ah !" she said. " You're angry with Britain.

You're resentful, and you want to punish us. It's

a very great responsibility. But I'm so glad to

have had this talk with you."

Of all which the lesson is that the artist mustsuffer the righteous gladly.

26

WOMEN AT WAR-WORKThere is much talk of man-power, but strangely

little of woman-power. The shortage of military

nurses is serious. Adequate nursing meansquicker recovery of the wounded. Nurses there-

fore mean soldiers. For a year past the authori-

ties have been worried by this shortage, whichhas now become acute, if not alarming. Last

week a new 700-bed hospital in London wasready—except that it entirely lacked nurses.

The exportation of both nurses and doctors

has been frowned upon for a long time. To-dayit is absolutely forbidden, as those war-charity

committees who occupy themselves with allied

countries are learning to their dismay. TheWar Office, of course, cannot directly control

by ukase the movements of women, or of doctors

over military age, but it can and does achieve

its end by refusing passports. The causes of the

shortage are two. Nurses and V.A.D. womenhave been, and are, shockingly overworked

;

sometimes very badly treated. Many of themhave retired in collapse. Others have retired

in resentment. And the tales told have impededrecruitment to the thinned ranks—ranks at best

extremely inadequate. Women-workers in every

branch of activity have met with injustice. Theyare underpaid in the War Office, and thousands

of them are underpaid in the munition factories.

Also they are underpaid by private employers.

For example, I know cases of competent girls

who enthusiastically went to London as drivers

27


of motor-vans in order to liberate men. I could

name two girls who were employed by two wealthy

and prominent firms in the West End. Theyworked from 8.30 a.m. to 8, 9, and 10 p.m., andearned 28s. a week. Van-driving in Central

London may be deemed to be skilled labour. Theprice of a male chauffeur in London is now 60s.

a week. In a few months these girls were wornout. One of them, when she gave notice, was

offered a rise of 2s. a week ! The offer did not

change her resolve. After a one-roomed miser-

able existence in London they returned to country

houses and spread the glorious news of the

metropolitan labour-market.

The other cause of the shortage is that womenwho might have volunteered have not volunteered.

While many women have left the idleness of

comfortable houses in town and country for

war-work, many women without ties have not.

I am personally acquainted with instances,

especially in the country, which I unhesitatingly

call scandalous. Again, there are women whoplunge furiously into war-work—and tire of it

for no reason save that a ridiculous upbringing

has deprived them of the necessary moral stamina.

I talked at length to one such woman the other

night. She was rich, and had done six months'hard in a Government office for 35s. a week.

The feat was enormous for her. She went back

with a terrific rebound into private life. She hadseen Watch your Step forty-two times and TheBing Boys are Here sixteen times. She said :

28

WOMEN AT WAR-WORK" It isn't that I enjoy these things after aboutthe third time, but people ask you to dinner and' to go to the theatre afterwards.' You don't

know beforehand where you are going to. Sowhat is one to do ?

" Sidelight on British

war-manners ! Cf. the strictures of the elect

on the cinema craze in the East End !

•o

Then there are the women who from the first

have deemed it their most sacred duty to give

officers on leave a good time. In this connection

one is entitled to comment upon the marvellous

silence which the Press has maintained about

the raiding by the police of the establishment

where the art of giving officers on leave a goodtime is practised in its highest and costliest

perfection. Yet the event had immense possi-

bilities as " copy." I am informed that a

policeman, entering, raised his hand, and, in the

grandeur of the moment forgetting his grammar,proclaimed :

" In the name of the law, everybodyis forbidden to touch their glasses." The de-

fiance of the liquor regulations in this resort

(and in others) has been open and notorious

for months, and for weeks frequenters had beenbetting among themselves about the chances of

a police-raid. Britain is not a country where there

is one law for the rich and another for the poor.

Certainly not ! But it is a country where the

swiftness of the law is in inverse ratio to the

wealth and prestige of the person who defies it.

4 November 191 6.

29

"FUNNY STORIES"It was in the half-forgotten days when there

were horse-omnibuses, driven and conducted bymen, and wit flourished in the thoroughfares.

A bus-horse, checked too late, knocked his

nose against a policeman's arm. The policeman,

very ugly in face, cursed heartily. The wise

driver said naught, but just listened and listened

to the imprecations. As he was moving off,

he gazed inoffensively curious at the policeman's

features, and remarked with gentle melancholy :

" You never sent me that photograph as youpromised me." And then, at a later day, whenmotor-buses had begun seriously to competewith horse-omnibuses, a motor-bus was trying

ineffectually to start, and making those gramo-phonic noises which we all remember. Theconductor of the horse-omnibus just in front,

taking down the way-bill from its pocket, threwover his shoulder :

" Try another record. Bill."

Which reminds me of conductors in general,

and especially of English conductors, though it

is said that there are none. A certain English

conductor is noted among orchestras for the

beauty of his language at rehearsals. In fact,

his remarks have been recorded verbatim by anorchestral player interested in literature. Hesaid to the orchestra, in the way of guidance :

" Sigh and die." He said :'' Don't handicap the

crescendo." He said :" I want a savage staccato."

He said : " All this passage must be nice and

30

" FUNNY STORIES "

manifold." He said to a particular player :

" Weep, Mr. Parker, weep. [Mr. Parker makes

his instrument weep.] That's jolly. That's

jolly." He said, persistent in getting an effect :

" Sorry to tease you, gentlemen." He said

:

" Now, side-drums, assert yourself." He said :

" I want it mostly music." He asked for :

" That regular tum-tum which you do so ideally."

He said :" Now I want a sudden exquisite

hush." He said :" Everybody must be shadowy

together." He said :" Let the pizzicato act

as a sort of springboard to the passage." Hedemanded :

" Can't we court that better ?"

And he said :" Gentlemen of the first fiddles, this

isn't a bees' wedding ; it's something elemental."

Which reminds me that I was once talking to a

celebrated Hungarian pianist about English con-

ductors, and I mentioned an English conductor

renowned for his terrific energy. Although I

authoritatively informed the pianist that the

methods of the conductor in question at re-

hearsals were so conducive to perspiration that

on the days preceding musical festivals he regu-

larly changed all his clothes three times a day,

the pianist would not admit that he was a con-

ductor at all. " I will tell you why," said the

pianist, very serious and very convinced. " Healways stands with his legs together while con-

ducting. You cannot conduct if you always

stand with your legs together. It is physically

impossible."

31


Which reminds me somehow of music. I once

went to a Philharmonic concert, and it was not

so very long ago either—as music goes. Precisely,

it was in November 191 2. Strauss's Also sprach

Zarathustra was in the programme. Now, Also

sprach Zarathustra was composed about 1896,

and first performed in England, at the Crystal

Palace, in 1897. But the Philharmonic pro-

gramme in 191 2 said :" First time at these

concerts." And the very characters of the

printing seemed to show a British pride in that

dignified delay of sixteen years.

Music is a vast subject, and I recall all sorts

of things about it. I remember meeting an

orchestral player lugging his violoncello one

night late in the streets of London. " Hello !

"

I said in the vernacular. " Where you been ?"

" Where I been ? " he replied. " I been witha few pals to play at Virginia Water. There's

a lunatic asylum there. There was a ball for

the lunatics, with an interval in the middle.

We were the interval." And still speaking of

music, a certain fervent professor of the piano,

pointing to a passage in a Beethoven sonata, said :

" You can see him writing a passage like that

and shaking his hair." " Yes," brightly observed

the girl-pupil, " he had rather long hair, hadn't

he ? " Even sonatas, though but a branch, are

a vast subject in themselves. I am remindedthat a young lady went into a music shop andsaid :

" I want a piece called ' Sonata.' " Shop-man, after hesitating : " Which one, miss ?

"

32

" FUNNY STORIES "

Young lady : "I'll take the one in the

window."

A similar incident occurred on the very same

day. A wealthy lady remarked to a friend of

mine: "I bought quite a batch of six-shilling novels

the other day for ninepence each, as good as new."" Really !

" exclaimed my friend. " What were

they ? Who are the authors ?" Said the lady :

" Oh 1 I don't know. But the shop-girl assured

me that she had read them herself and they were

all very good." Which inevitably reminds me,

and must remind all readers, of the British

attitude towards the arts. At the very Phil-

harmonic concert referred to above, I heard one

musical dilettante say to another, after the Strauss

:

" Pity that a man with so much talent should

prostitute himself in that way, isn't it ?"

And I remember being at a picture-show at

the Grafton Galleries when entered a large

woman of the ruling caste with a large voice

and a lorgnette. She smiled her self-satisfac-

tion all over the place, revelling in the oppor-

tunity which such shows give to a leisured class

of feeling artistically superior. She went straight

to a Cezanne and said loudly :" Now no one

will persuade me that the man who painted that

was serious. He was just pulling our legs."

She said it to the whole room. She said it to me." Madam," I nearly, but not quite, answered," a leg like yours must want some pulling."

Which reminds me that I have lived intimately

c 33


with painters, and that one of them in Paris,

who had discovered that he could mix better

colours than he could buy, once said to me :

" I still go on with my colour-mixing. I get

up rather late, paint until lunch, paint after

lunch till it's dark, and then till dinner I mix

my colours. It makes you feel virtuous. It

makes you feel like an old master. Goodness

knows, it's the only time when you do feel like

an old master." And that reminds me of a

group of provincial old masters of the British

art of football, who, after a final cup-tie at the

Crystal Palace, and an evening at the Empire,

turned into their hotel just at closing-time on

a Saturday night. They were seven. Said the

oldest master of them all, glancing about himand counting: "Seven. A round each. Waiter,

bring forty-nine whiskies-and-sodas. Then youcan go to bed." And I was once—years ago

—

discussing English history with a young athletic

friend. I pointed out that no battles, except

civil scraps, had been fought on British soil for

centuries. " Yes," he said, " all our fixtures

have been away."

34

GRIMNESS AND OPTIMISMThe Roumanian helter-skelter is said to have

caused a " wave of depression " to run through

the country. And there are pulse-feelers whoregularly every week register—by a gauge of

their own—the state of public opinon in regard

to the war. According to them the fluctuations,

especially in London, are continual and very

appreciable. For myself, I have never been

able to appreciate them. I find that British

mankind is steadily divided into three mainclasses, and that nothing but an extremely great

and striking event wiU shift individuals out of

one class into another class. The first class

consists of optimistic persons—and military officers

are well represented in it. These persons have

remained optimistic through everything, and for

them the war is always going to end in about

three months. They do not reason ; they feel.

The second class consists of grim, obstinate

persons ; it is the largest class. Speculation as

to the end of the war rather bores them. Theydrive on, and on, and on. They are inclined to

ignore both the pros and the cons. They do not

reason ; they feel. The third class consists of

pessimistic persons. They were pessimistic after

Mons and through Gallipoli ; they were pessi-

mistic when Douaumont was taken by the

Germans, and equally pessimistic when it was

taken from the Germans. They do not reason ;

they feel. Their haunting fear is that civilisa-

tion is doomed. This fear seems to keep them

35


awake at nights, and they reflect in the dark

upon previous disasters to civilisation.

I do not profess history, but I will venture

the view that the great historical collapses have

been made possible by one thing, namely, the

corrupt growth of privilege. This was the

real cause, for example, of the Roman collapse,

of the Carlovingian collapse, and of the Bourboncollapse. Indeed, history is quite monotonousin this respect. I will also venture the view

that the collapses have steadily decreased in

intensity. Even the Northern tribes wereanxious, indeed pathetically anxious, to preserve

Roman institutions. As for the French revolu-

tion, it was immediately followed by a system

decidedly superior to that which had beendestroyed. Now, I do not see any sign of the

corrupt extension of privilege—either at present

or in recent times. I see the reverse. (True,

a vast deal of privilege still survives—but it is a

survival.) Nor can I find any reason whatever

why civilisation should collapse. The war is

terrific compared with previous wars, but our

resources are terrific compared with the resources

of our ancestors. I take little notice of the

boastings of the prominent. That which will

count is not what people say, however sincerely,

but what lies at the bottom of men's minds.

To wit, the instinct of self-preservation. Thisinstinct acts in one way at the beginning of a

row ; but it acts in another way towards the

end of a row. Long before civilisation is really

36

GRIMNESS AND OPTIMISM

endangered, this master instinct—^far stronger

even than conceit in the great mass of mankind

—will come into play.

Meanwhile a good proof of the prevalence of

grimness and optimism is the fullness of London.A director of the leading hotel company told

me last week that London had never—during or

before the war—been so full as it is to-day.

The offices of flat agents have been thronged.

I say " thronged." Hotels are turning awayold customers because they are literally andphysically full—not merely full in the com-mercial sense. More, they have increased their

prices. They were well justified in doing so.

For two years of the war the principal expensive

hotels kept their prices reduced by about 50 per

cent. They ignored the increase of costs. Theygave nothing to their shareholders and very

little to their debenture-holders. But they

saved the hotel habit alive. They are nowgetting a bit—only a bit—of their own back.

The causes of the fullness of London, I aminformed by those whose perspicuity I respect,

are five: i, the Somme advance; 2, the

destruction of Zeppelins; 3, soldiers' relatives

from the Colonies; 4, British soldiers' relatives

who come to London to see soldiers off and are

kept there because soldiers seldom know whenthey are going off; 5 (and chiefly), restlessness

of people immobilised in the country who cannot

abide the country any longer and must have a

change. Of course, town houses are closed.

37


But town houses are being opened too. I knowof a magnate who has chosen this moment to

re-fit a big West End mansion. The regulations

of the Ministry of Munitions prevent him fromdoing anything really noble in the structural

line, but he is managing to spend over ;^2000

in curtains. It is true that the police are very

strict about exposed lights ! And, you see, Mr.M'Kenna was so ill-advised as to state publicly

his opinion that the country would stand the

financial strain to the end. Still, the year's

expenditure will probably exceed his estimate

by over a hundred millions.

II November 191 6.

38

THE APPEAL TO PROVIDENCEThe air raid of Monday reminds me of an inci-

dent in the last air raid over the Midlands. Aman, whom I will call Mr. Bigsby, was staying in

a house inhabited hy five women. In the noise

and excitement one of the women dropped on to

her knees on the hearthrug and began to pray.

She appealed to Providence, with great apparent

sincerity, for some time, and then she suddenly

jumped up, crying :" Oh, dear ! This is no

good. I'm going to fetch Mr. Bigsby !" and

ran out of the room.

2 December 1916.

39

THE ROSEN^AVALIERI WAS at the first performance of T^he Rosen-

kavalier, and the description in the next day's

newspapers of the enthusiastic applause after

each act astonished me, journalist though I

have been and am. The first act of this enchant-

ing work was received with complete apathy bythe stalls, grand circle, and boxes, and not muchapplause seemed to come from the amphitheatre

and gallery—that fount of enthusiasm. Thesame applies to the second act. After the third

act there was the usual ovation, and a sort of

explosive shout from upstairs when Sir ThomasBeecham appeared between the curtains. Andthat was all. It is untrue that The Rosenkavalier

was liked by the Covent Garden public. It wasnot. Its success was a success of snobbishness.

The first accounts of the opera from Germany,and the fantastic fatuity of the Censor in sub-

stituting a sofa for a bed at the beginning of the

first act, created a prejudice against the merebook. The following is an overheard italic

conversation between two women at a perform-

ance :—A :" Well, what do you think of the

Opera ?" B :

" Well, you see, my dear, I've

been trying to dissociate it from the stage.

I've been trying to listen to the music and to

forget the grossness of the libretto.'' A :" But

it is very fascinating, isn't it, really ? " B :

" No, I don't think it is. Of course it is very

difficult to take in one without the other. Oneought to wear blinkers.''

40

THE ROSENKAVALIER

Now the libretto is not gross—neither sensual,

nor perverse, nor depraved. It is the simple

story—arranged with consummate skill for the

operatic stage—of a young man providing a

tragedy for an ageing woman by ceasing to love

her, and an ecstatic joy for a young woman by

beginning to love her. And the main theme is

treated with gravity and serene beauty. Thetrio in which the two women and the young manexpress themselves together is no more gross

than the second act of Tristan^ and quite as

celestial. But thirty years ago Tristan was gross

in this country. Happily Wagner, a serpent of

wisdom, had the wit to keep his princesses fromhaving breakfast in bed, and so was ultimately

saved. To return to the point—at all the

Strauss performances which I attended, the

major part of the audience was either inimical

or brutishly indifferent, so much so that one was

humiliated—one felt that one ought to apologise

to the artistes. (The exception was the amphi-

theatre and gallery. But then Covent Gardenamphitheatre and gallery—together with the

floor of the Promenade Concerts—constitute the

most genuine musical public in London. Thereal future of English music lies undeciphered

in their hearts. And here is hope.)

41

TRANSLATING LITERATUREINTO LIFE

Lo, a parable ! A certain man, having boughta large, elaborate, and complete manual of

carpentry, studied it daily with much diligence

and regularity. Now there were no cupboardsin his house ; his dining-table consisted of an

arrangement of orange-boxes, and he had scarcely

a chair that was not a menace to the existence of

the person who sat down upon it. When asked

why he did not set to work, and, by applying

the principles of the manual, endeavour to im-prove the conditions of his life and of the lives

of his wife and children, he replied that he wasa student, and he plunged more deeply than ever

into the manual of carpentry. His friends at

length definitely came to the conclusion that,

though he was an industrious student, he wasalso a hopeless fool.

J By which I wish to indicate that there is nol/virtue in study by itself. Study is not an end, A

vbut a means. I should blush to write down such '^

a platitude, did I not know by experience that

the majority of readers constantly ignore it.

The man who pores over a manual of carpentry

and does naught else is a fool. But every bookis a manual of carpentry, and every man whopores over any book whatever and does naughtelse with it is deserving of an abusive epithet.

What is the object of reading unless somethingdefinite comes of it ? You would be better

42

TRANSLATING LITERATURE INTO LIFE

advised to play billiards. Where is the sense of

reading history if you do not obtain from it a

clearer insight into actual politics and render

yourself less liable to be duped by the rhetoric i

of party propaganda ? Where is the sense of '

reading philosophy if your own attitude towards

the phenomena of the universe does not becomemore philosophical ? Where is the sense of

reading morals unless your own are improved ?

Where is the sense of reading biography unless

it is going to affect what people will say about

you after your funeral ? Where is the sense of

reading poetry or fiction unless you see morebeauty, more passion, more scope for your

sympathy, than you saw before ?

If you boldly answer : "I only read for

pleasure," then I retort that the man who drinks

whisky might with force say : "I only drink

whisky for pleasure." And I respectfully re-

quest you not to plume yourself on your read-

ing, nor expect to acquire merit thereby. Butshould you answer :

" I do try to translate

literature into life," then I will ask you to take

down any book at random from your shelves andconduct in your own mind an honest inquiry

as to what has been the effect of that particular

book on your actual living. If you can put your

hand on any subsequent period, or fractional

moment, of your life, and say :" I acted more

wisely then, I wasn't such a dupe then, I per-

ceived more clearly then, I felt more deeply

then, I saw more beauty then, I was kinder then,

43

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEI was more joyous then, I was happier then

—

than I should have been if I had not read that

book"—^if you can honestly say this, then yourreading of that book has not been utterly futile.

But if you cannot say this, then the chances are

that your reading of that book has been utterly

futile. The chances are that you have beenstudying a manual of carpentry while continuing

to sit on a three-legged chair and to dine off an

orange-box.

e>

You say :" I know all that. But it is not so

easy to translate literature into life." And I

admit freely that when I think of the time I havewasted in reading masterpieces, I stand aghast.

The explanation is simple. Idleness, intellectual

sloth, is the explanation. If you were invited

to meet a great writer, you would brace yourself

to the occasion. You would say to yourself :

" I must keep my ears open, and my brain wide-

awake, so as to miss nothing." You would tingle

with your own bracing of yourself. But you

—

I mean we—will sit down to a great book as

though we were sitting down to a ham sandwich.No sense of personal inferiority in us ! Nomood of resolve ! No tuning up of the in-

tellectual apparatus ! But just a casual, easy

air, as if saying to the book :" Well, come along,

let's have a look at you !" What is the matter

with our reading is casualness, languor, pre-

occupation. We don't give the book a chance.

We don't put ourselves at the disposal of the

book. It is impossible to read properly without

44

TRANSLATING LITERATURE INTO LIFE

using all one's engine-power. If we are not

tired after reading, common sense is not in us.

How should one grapple with a superior and not

be out of breath ?

But even if we read with the whole force of

our brain, and do nothing else, common sense is

still not in us, while sublime conceit is. For weare assuming that, without further trouble, wecan possess, co-ordinate, and assimilate all the

ideas and sensations rapidly offered to us by a

mind greater than our own. The assumption

has only to be stated in order to appear in its

monstrous absurdity. Hence it follows that

something remains to be done. This something I

is the act of reflection. Reading without sub- !

sequent reflection is ridiculous ; it is a proof i

equally of folly and of vanity. Further, it is a !

sign of undue self-esteem to suppose that we can;

grasp the full import of an author's message at a'

single reading. I would not say that every book •

worth reading once is worth reading twice over.

But I would say that no book of great and estab-.

lished reputation is read till it is read at least

twice. You can easily test the truth of this by |

reading again any classic. 1

45

AFTER ASQUITHIn the thick of the crisis I had some opportuni-

ties of discovering what has been the moderateconservative City opinion on events. I do not

mean the kind of City opinion represented at

the meeting of Lord Beresford, which responsible

persons seem to regard as a circus over-stafted

with clowns. There was some feeling against

the Navy. It is held that though warnings

did not lack, no preparations whatever had beenmade at the beginning of the war against the

first or minor submarine campaign, and that the

success in defeating it was due not to policy butto vigorous inventive resource at the moment.Further, that though again warnings did not

lack, no proper preparations had been made at

the beginning of the second or major submarinecampaign. Both Mr. Runciman and Mr.M'Kenna had the confidence of this moderateCity opinion, the former in a very high degree.

Lord Grey was esteemed a masterly writer of

dispatches and admirable in his dealings withAmerica, but otherwise very faulty. It was held

that three times the Foreign Office has lost the

chance of winning the war in the Balkans,

and that the greatest of all our mistakes in the

Balkans have been Foreign Office mistakes.

It was held that Lord Grey still stands for the

old Foreign Office system, and that no attemptwhatever has been made to reform it. Theserious City now openly admits that our public

school and university education, despite its

46

AFTER ASQUITH

admirable results in the hunting-field, wants a

little altering. In this connection it is worthwhile to note the accomplishment of our highly-

educated Ministers in the use of the key-language

of Europe. Mr. Balfour speaks no French.

Lord Grey speaks a French disgraceful on the

lips of a Foreign Secretary. Mr. Asquith's

French is excessively bad. Mr. Runciman speaks

fair French. Mr. M'Kenna speaks excellent,

fluent, conversational (though no colloquial)

French. But then Mr. M'Kenna never wentto one of our great public schools.

City opinion wanted a change, but it wastimorous about Mr. Lloyd George, and it

emphatically did not wish to lose Mr. Asquith

as Prime Minister. That is certain. Still, the

best that these people would say about Mr.Asquith was that he was less objectionable in

the post than anybody else. Over an unfresh

fourpenny egg at the realistic hour of breakfast,

with all the bad news between us in the opennewspaper, a prominent banker said gloomily

to me :" It is discouraging, though, when for

Prime Minister we have to be content with a

mere manipulator of men." I replied :" But

hasn't a Prime Minister just got to be chiefly a

manipulator of men ? " The banker saw some-thing in this idea. The fact is, that the real

complaint against the new Prime Minister is

that he does not manipulate men sufficiently,

but rather leaves them alone, with a resulting

delay and failure to co-ordinate. The fact is,

47


also, that what the supporters of Mr. Lloyd

George, when they praise him, specially lay

stress on, is precisely his skill in manipulating

men. Of course, they phrase the faculty

differently. It is remarkable how even the

canniest brains may be at the mercy of a phrase.

" Manipulator of men " sounds bad, and the

alliteration intensifies its subtle abusiveness.

oWhat the public cannot appreciate too clearly

is that Ministers are tired. They are very tired.

The best of them were rather tired before the

war began. I have never seen Cabinet Ministers

at work, but I have seen them in repose. Go to

lunch at the house of a Cabinet Minister, and the

Minister will come in at a quarter to two, and at

half-past two he will be gone again, slipping

quietly away with scarcely a word, unless amonghis guests are foreign strangers necessitating

ceremony. Go to dinner, and you are bidden

for 8.30, and the meal may with luck begin at

8.45, and even then the Minister will as like as

not appear in morning dress, having had no time

to change. This kind of thing goes on continu-

ously month after month and year after year,

until a severe cold, influenza, or a complete

breakdown interrupts the endless sequence.

What saves Ministers is the brief week-end—to

which certain newspapers invariably refer in

sarcastic terms. The charge of lethargy is

comic. The principal Ministers are engaged

in hard constructive or critical thinking all day

for five and a half days a week at least. Some48

AFTER ASQUITH

work more than others, and among the former

are those with an aptitude for departmental

detail. Neither Mr. Lloyd George nor Mr.Balfour has this aptitude. In my view, the

unsatisfactoriness of the late Government wasdue wholly to inevitable fatigue and inevitable

coalition, and to nothing else save the universal

imperfection of human nature. To expect forth-

right decisions from a Coalition is childish.

9 December 191 6.

49

MORE EFFICIENT HOUSE-KEEPINGThe domestic life of the middle classes has now

settled down, and the servant question is solved

—so far as it will be solved. (Servants, by the

way, are ever so slightly easier to get than they

were six months ago.) The charwoman has

solved it, as she has solved every similar difficulty

in the past. But the definition of " charwoman "

must be enlarged in order to include any female

domestic servant who " sleeps out " in a homeof her own. While ordinary domestic servants

are rare, these women are not rare. They can be

got. There are at the present time in Londonthousands of homes of which the household

income runs up to ^400 or ;^500 a year whencethe ordinary domestic servant has vanished.

The mistress does most of the work, and she is

assisted by a charwoman, and by the children

if there are any. One result I can judge for

myself : houses are appreciably cleaner, andmeals are better cooked and more promptly

served. Incidentally, mistresses have acquired

a new interest in existence, and they try to take

pride in roughened hands and in their evening

fatigue. The other principal result is, I am told,

a really immense economy. When I was person-

ally interested in housekeeping and kept myown household accounts, twenty years ago, the

efficient thing was not to let household expenses

exceed ids. per head per week. It could be done,

and with a plenteous menu. That well-known

50

MORE EFFICIENT HOUSEKEEPING

domestic expert, Mrs. C. S. Peel, since turned

novelist, once wrote a book with the strange title,

lOs. a Head fer Week for House-Books. I aminformed, and believe, that to-day it is possible

to do for 15s. 6d. what in those days was done

for los., and that without servants the figure

can be considerably reduced. It doubtless can.

Necessity is the great miracle-worker.

16 December 1916.

51

THE BARBERI WAS Staying in an agreeable English village.

And my hair grew as usual. I asked an acquaint-

ance of mine, a chauffeur, for information about

local barbers. He replied that there was a goodbarber in the county town twelve and a half miles

off, and that there was no other. Discouraged,

I put the inconvenient matter aside, hoping, as

one does of an inconvenient matter, that in somemysterious way time would purge it of its in-

convenience. But my hair kept on inexorably

growing, growing. No shutting of my eyes, nodetermination not to be inconvenienced, wouldstop it. My hair was as irresistible as an avalanche

or as the evolution of a society. I foresaw the

danger of being mistaken on the high road for a

genius, and I spoke to the chauffeur again. Herepeated what he had said. " But," I protested," there are fifteen hundred people living within

a couple of miles of this spot. Surely they don't

all travel twelve and a half miles to get their hair

cut !" He smiled. Oh no ! A barber's shop

existed in the hinterland of the village. " Butit would be quite impossible for you, sir. Quiteimpossible ! " His tone was convinced. Anexperienced gardener confirmed his judgmentwith equal conviction. I accepted it. Thechasms which separate one human being fromanother are often unsuspected and terrible. Didthe chauffeur submit himself to the village

barber ? He did not. The gardener did, but

not the chauffeur. The chauffeur, I learnt,

52

THE BARBER

went to the principal barber's at X, a seaside

resort about four miles off. Being a practically

uneducated man, incapable even of cutting myown hair, and thus painfully dependent onsuperiors in skill, I was bound to yield somehowin the end, and I compromised. Travel twelve

and a half miles for so simple an affair I wouldnot. But I would travel four. " Couldn't I

go to the barber's at X ?" I asked. The

chauffeur, having reflected, admitted that perhaps

I might. And after a few moments he stated

that the place was clean, and indeed rather

smart.

•o

X is a very select resort, and in part residential.

It has a renowned golf-links, many red detached

houses with tennis lawns, many habitable bathing-

cabins, two frigid and virtuous hotels, and nopier or band. In summer it is alive with the

gawky elegance of upper-class Englishwomen,athletic or maternal. But this happened in the

middle of winter. The principal barber's was

in the broad main street, and the front shop wasdevoted to tobacco. I passed into the back

shop, a very small room. The barber wasshaving another customer. He did not greet me,nor show by any sign that my arrival had reached

his senses. A small sturdy boy in knickers, with

a dirty white apron too large for him, grinned at

me amicably. When I asked him :" Is it you

who are going to operate on me ? " he grinnedstill more and shook his head. I was relieved.

The shabby room, though small, was very cold.

53


A tiny fire burned in the grate ; and the grate,

in this quite modern back shop, was such as one

finds in servants' bedrooms—when servants'

bedrooms have any grate at all. Clean white

curtains partially screened a chilly French windowthat gave on to a backyard. The whiteness of

these curtains and of three marble wash-basins

gave to the room an aspect of cleanliness which

had deceived the chauffeur's simplicity. Theroom was not clean. Thick dust lay on the

opaline gas-shades, and the corners were full of

cobwebs. A dirty apron and a cap hung on a

nail in one corner. In another was a fitment

containing about fifteen heavy mugs and shaving-

brushes, numbered. The hair-brushes were poor.

The floor was of unpolished dirty planks, perhaps

deal. There was no sign of any antiseptic

apparatus. I cannot say that I was surprised,

because in England I already knew of towns of

thirty-five to forty thousand inhabitants, not to

mention vast metropolitan suburbs, without a

single barber's shop that is not slatternly, dirty,

and inadequate in everything except the sharp-

ness of the razors. But I was disappointed in the

chauffeur, whom I had deemed to be a bit of a

connoisseur. The truth was that the chauffeur

had imposed himself on me as a grenadier on a

nurse girl. However, I now knew that chauffeurs

are not necessarily what they seem.

•o

I stood as close as I could with my back to the

tiny fire, and glanced through the pages of the

Daily Mirror. And while I waited I thought of

54

THE BARBERall the barbers in my career. I am interested in

barbers. I esteem hair-cutting a very delicate

and intimate experience, and one, like going out

to dinner, not to be undertaken lightly. I said

once to a barber in Guernsey :" That's the

first time I've ever been shaved !" I was proud

of my sangfroid. He answered grimly :" I

thought so, sir." He silenced me ; but the

fellow had no imagination. I bring the samecharge against most New York barbers, who,rendered callous by the harsh and complexsplendour of their catacombs, take hold of your

head as if it was your foot, or perhaps a detach-

able wooden sphere. I like Denmark because

there some of the barber's shops have a thin

ascending jet of water whose summit just caresses

the bent chin, which, after shaving, is thus laved

without either the repugnant British sponge

or the clumsy splashing practised in France andItaly. French barbers are far better than

English. They greet you kindly when you enter

their establishments and invariably create in

you the illusion that you will not have to wait.

I knew well a fashionable barber in Paris, and in

his shop I reclined generally between a Countand a Marquis. This prevalence of the nobility

amazed and pleased me until one day the barber

addressed me as Monsieur le Marquis. He madea f>eer, but lost a customer. For years I knewvery well indeed the sole barber of a small

French village. This man was in his excellent

shop fourteen hours a day seven days a week. Hehad one day's holiday every year, Easter Monday,

55


when he went to Paris for the day. He was

never ill and always placid. Then came the

Weekly Repose Act, and the barber was compelled

to close his shop one day a week. He chose

Monday, and on Mondays he went fishing. Hehad been a barber ; he was now a king ; his

gorgeous satisfaction in life impregnated the

whole village like ozone. Not every Act of Parlia-

ment is ineffective.

oItalian barbers are greater than French, both

in quality and in numbers. Every Italian village

has several big barbers ; and in some of the morewithdrawn towns, festering in their own history,

the barber's seems to be the only industry that is

left. On a certain afternoon I walked up anddown the short and narrow Via Umberto Primoin that surpassingly monumental port, Civita

Vecchia, and there were at least ten seductive

barber's shops in the street, and they were all

very busy, so that I entered none of them,

though boys in white ran out at intervals andbegged me to enter. These small boys in white

are indispensable to the ceremonial of a goodItalian barber's shop. After you are shaved

they approach you reverently, bearing a large

silver or brass bowl of water high in their raised

hands, and you deign to rinse. In that industrial

purgatory, Piombino, I found an admirable shop

with three such acolytes, brothers, all tiny. Thedisadvantage of them, however, is grave ; whenyou reflect that they work ninety hours a weekyour pleasure is spoilt. There are wondrous

S6

THE BARBER

barbers in Rome, artists who comprehend that a

living head is entitled to respect, and whose

affectionate scissors create while destroying.

Unnecessary to say to these men :" Please

remember that the whole of my livelihood and

stock-in-trade is between your hands." But

the finest artist I know or have known is never-

theless in Paris. His life has the austerity of a

monk's. I once saw him in the street ; he struck

me as out of place there, and he seemed to

apologise for having quitted even for an instant

his priest-like task. Whenever I visit him he

asks me where I last had my hair cut. His

criticisms of the previous barber are brief and

unanswerable. But once, when I had come from

Rome, he murmured, with negligent approval :

" C'est assez Hen cowpe-r

The principal barber at X signed to me to take

the chair. The chair was very uncomfortable

because it was too high in the seat. I mildly

commented on this. The barber answered :

" It's not high enough for me as it is. I always

have to stoop."

He was a rather tall man.Abashed, I suggested that a footstool might be

provided for customers.

He answered with quiet indifference :

" I believe that they do have them in someplaces."

He was a decent, sad, disappointed man, aged

about thirty-five ; and very badly shaved. Novice in him ; but probably a touch of mysticism

;

57


assuredly a fatalist. I felt a certain sympathywith him, and I asked if business was good. No,it was not. X was nothing of a place. Theseason was far too short ; in fact, it scarcely

existed. Constant " improvements " involved

high rates—twelve shillings in the pound—and

there were too few ratepayers, because mostof the houses stood in large gardens. Theowners of these gardens enjoyed the " improve-

ments " on the sea-front, which he paid for. His

rent was too heavy—fifty pounds a year—and he

was rated at thirty-two. Such was his conspectus

of X, in which everything was wrong except his

chairs—and even they were too low for him. Hehad been at Z with his uncle. Now Z toas a

town ! But he could not set up against his

uncle, so he had come to X.o

Two young men entered the front shop. Thebarber immediately left me to attend to them.

But as he reached the door between the twoshops he startled me by turning round and

muttering :

" Excuse me, sir."

Mollified by this unexpected urbanity, I

waited cheerfully with my hair wet some time

while he discussed at length with the two youngmen the repairing of a damaged tobacco-pipe.

When he came back he parted my hair on the

wrong side—sure sign of an inefficient barber.

He had been barbering for probably twenty

years and had not learnt that a barber ought to

notice the disposition of a customer's hair before

58

THE BARBER

touching it. He was incapable, but not a badsort. He took my money with kindly gloom,

and wished me an amicable good-day, and I

walked up the street away from the principal

barber's hurriedly in order to get warm. Theman's crass and sublime ignorance of himself

was touching. He had not suspected his ownincapacity. Above all, he had not guessed that

he was the very incarnation of the spirit of British

small retail commerce. Soon he and about ten

thousand other barbers just like him will be dis-

covering that something is wrong with the barber

world, and, full of a grievance against the public,

they will try to set it right by combining to raise

prices.

59

SACKINGDo you suppose that the existence of a serious

crisis in the war and in the history of civihsation

will make the slightest difference to the attitude

of the typical departmental servant (who may be

yourself or myself) to the new Minister who has

been summoned in from extra-departmental

wilds ? The leading idea in the mind of the

typical departmental servant on that ticklish

first morning of introductions and hollow polite-

nesses must inevitably be :" My rights ! My

habits ! My susceptibilities ! . . . You have

everything to learn, while I know all. I can

foresee just where you will stumble. Youpossess authority, but unreal and fleeting. Youintrude. I was here long before you, and I shall

be here long after you. I am eternal. So look

out for yourself." And think of the warybusiness man, on that same morning, weighing

individualities, divining trouble, and keeping his

thoughts to himself ! The greater his experi-

ence of the world, the swifter will be his realisa-

tion of the complexity and vastness and traditional

momentum of the dangerous machine into which

he has plunged with his fragile reputation that

he cherishes so. Tell a man of organising genius

to co-ordinate and control the huge traffic of a

city of seven millions, undisturbed for generations,

and he will set about it and do it. But tell himalso that he must accomplish the work with a

staff not one member of which he is at liberty

to sack, and he will laugh at you. The foregoing

60

SACKING

is an exercise in realism perhaps unpleasant, but

not without a useful value if we are to be just

to Ministers and to avoid illusions and therefore

disillusions.

Sack a Civil Servant ! Shove a high Staff

Officer back into the struggling ruck ! Un-thinkable ! Why unthinkable ? The idea should

only be unthinkable to a nation of bureaucrats.

(In certain other nations bureaucracy has been

sackable in its entirety.) The charwoman of the

Ministerial offices can be sacked. The Minister

himself can be sacked—notoriously is sacked.

Everybody is sackable except the intermediate

grades of State servants. It may be right or it

may not be. I believe that a general suspicion

that it is not right is responsible for the half-

hearted combing-out arrangements in the Indian

Civil. We do move, after all. I do not assert

that the question is in the least simple, or that it

is the greatest of all questions.

23 December 191 6.

61

BICARBONATE OF SODAFor our drive along the savage coast west and

north of Mont Estoril, we had a fine pair of

horses and a fine coachman, who spoke a little

French. He was old, but we never decided howold, and of course we did not ask his age. Hehad a pocket-book crammed with Portuguese

paper money ; it was about an inch and a half

thick and contained nothing but notes. Nodoubt some of them were worth only an English

penny ; nevertheless, they gave him a consider-

able air of substance. He had dignity, manners,

a fine smile ; and though his French vocabulary

was very limited he used it with an excellent

accent. We saw a solitary fisherman fishing with

a long rod from a dark rock that overlooked

what might fitly have been called a seething

cauldron of waters ; on that coast there are

always breakers and flying spray. We saw a

lighthouse-keeper tinkering at his house just like

a suburban dweller. Later we saw the lighthouse-

keeper's children, a little girl and a less boy,

meandering along the exposed road. Both werein rags and the boy was barefooted. After a

while we turned the carriage back because I hadseen two subjects for sketches. It began to rain.

We saw the solitary fisherman walking homeforlorn in the rain ; and he proved to be a very

old man with a face nearly black from exposure

and mixed blood, and strange toes sticking out

of straw shoes. We saw the two children hurry-

ing home, also forlorn in the rain, and the boy's

62

BICARBONATE OF SODA

head and face were all enfolded in the little girl's

arm. Then I stopped the carriage to look at a

view ; we were well sheltered under the raised

hood. The coachman got down. He had put

on a large lined coat which made him seem

suddenly very old and fragile indeed ; it took

away all his neat slimness. He ferreted under

his scat, and produced a linen bag holding a

bottle, a glass, and some white powder in a paper,

and made himself a potion. This act was too

much for my curiosity. He answered the in-

quisitive question :" Bicarbonate of soda, sir.

I have a malady of the stomach." He spoke with

extreme and almost despairing sadness. Theusually benign climate counted for nothing ; his

worldly courtesy counted for nothing. He was

a sick old man, very sorry for himself. Quite

apart from the realisation which it gave of the

universality of bicarbonate of soda, this incident

of the aged coachman descending from his box

in order to mix himself some medicine in the

rain on that wild and beautiful coast had im-

portance for me, for somehow it was one of the

most impressive and tragic that I remember for

years.

63

THE CASINO BALLThe hotel-resident who took us by storm in

the matter of buying tickets for the Shrove

Tuesday dance at the Casino answered our

objection that we did not dance by the argumentthat the affair was for charity. And she boasted

of the number of tickets she had already sold and

the number she would sell before Pancake Day.

She mentioned some young women upon whomshe had planted tickets, and when we pointed

out that as all male residents in all the hotels

were middle-aged or old the aforesaid youngwomen would never get partners, she said that

she had promised to get native partners for themand that her knowledge of the whole district

would enable her to do so. Then she made the

thing romantic for us by stating that every

purchaser of a ticket had to be vouched for, onaccount of the Orientalism of the local husbands,

who feared that undesirable persons mightobtain admittance to the ball. She said that

only on Shrove Tuesday were the indigenous

ladies permitted to attend a public dance, andshe added that some of them might possibly

be masked. The tickets said clearly enoughthat masks would be forbidden ; but she insisted

that the regulation applied only to men. Hencewe went to the dance excited by anticipations

of mysterious beauties, fierce husbands, and the

chance of undesirable persons. And sure enoughwhen we presented our cards they were taken byold and beflowered heavy swells who inspected

64

THE CASINO BALL

them carefully (after the manner of passport

officials), searched for our names on long lists of

names, and ticked off our names on the list, andthen, apparently reassured, invited us with bowsand smiles to go forward into Paradise.

The band and the lights were embedded in

fresh blossoms. The centre of the floor wasquite empty, and round about it seats withrather high backs were arranged in very straight

rows, so that they resembled church pews. Andthe place was as solemn as a church, and as anEnglish church, and the occupants of the pewswere almost exclusively naive English and Scotchgirls with their equally naive mammas. Therewere no masked native beauties, there were nonative beauties at all. There was not the slightest

mystery about the origin and past of any of these

fair simple creatures in their best hotel frocks.

We knew them from A to Z. A number of youngand youngish men gradually congregated roundthe door, and they were without doubt native

;

but they were acquainted with none of the

English, and the ticket-seller was invisible, andno M.C. arrived to perform introductions.

Presently a middle-aged English bachelor fromone of the hotels came along and respectfully

asked one of the girls for the pleasure of a dance,

which pleasure she at once gave him. Thatnoble public-spirited fellow had resolved to gothrough as many of the girls as time would permit,

and he manfully did so, and each time he solicited

a dance he marvellously contrived by his toneE 6s


to indicate that it was he and not the lady whowas receiving the favour. Soon girls were to be

seen dancing together. A honeymoon couple

danced dance after dance. . . . Every fifteen

minutes seemed like two hours. The girls smiled

and chatted courageously, but from those with

whom we had achieved some intimacy we learned

that furious discontent reigned and that curses

were floating off in hundreds to damn the still

invisible ticker-seller with her false promises of

partners. Assuredly the romance of the country

had been for ever dissipated, and in spite of its

poetical climate the town was shown up in its

true prosaic quality—as being no better than

Bournemouth, indeed not so good.

.^>

The next day the ticket-seller told us of the

great success of the ball and of the fact that she

had sold sixty-two tickets and paid in the moneyto the account of charity. We expressed our

surprise that she still lived, and warned her of a

widespread demand on the part of naive British

girls for her blood.

66

DINNER OF THE SYNDICATE OFLITERARY CRITICS, PARISA WIDE, long table. Very bare. No orna-

ments at all. A piano in the room. Soup, fish,

fowl, vegetables, beef, ice, wines, mineral water,

champagne frapfe, cheese, dessert, coffee,

cognac, cloakroom, tips. Inclusive, 4 francs

75 centimes. There were thirty or thirty-five

men and six women. A red-robed lady from the

provinces, and something the matter with her

corsage behind. A rich young woman who was

said to pay for the production of her own play.

Also a daughter of a well-known translator, in

pale blue ; a bad-mannered young Jew (whotook my ice with glee) tried to tutoyer her. Also

an American poseuse who talked to MarcelBallot, of Le Figaro, at the end of the table.

M. Ballot looked fatigued. M. Henri Duvernois,

opposite me, was preoccupied. M. Chantavoine

presided. He had a neat sardonic air. Droopingeyelids, and quick, light gestures. No age. Theofficial of the Education Department, who sat

by his side and looked fairly old had been his

pupil. A friend described M. Chantavoine as

" a true Athenian."

After the ice, he made a speech—neat andbright, full of genuine culture, but full also of

the usual stuff about sympathy, chers confreres,

etc., exactly as in England, and punctuated byfervent " Hear, hears !

" from the company onthe slightest excuse. Also the usual cliche stuff

67


about the surpassing devotion of the Secretary

;

but the latter may very well have been true in

this case ; the Secretary, a big, stout man, with

the air of a foreman, had an attractive and serious

face. Afterwards in the cloakroom, when I

offered to assist the President with his overcoat,

he energetically refused. " Jamais^'* he said, with

decision. " Routes mes excuses,^'' I said ironically.

" Je les accefte^'' he said ironically. Lakes of

mud outside, but the rain had just ceased.

Clouds drove across the sky. A crowd stood

waiting for a tramcar at the corner of the Boule-

vards St. Denis and Sebastopol. Among this

crowd was the Athenian President. To contrast

this brilliant and erudite man's worldly position

with that of the newspaper proprietor in his

motor-car, etc., was inevitable. As for me, I

took the Underground.

68

GOING DOWN A COAL-PITA SMALL party of us, men and women, went

down the Sneyd pit. First of all, we had to dress

for the part. Then our matches were taken fromus. The cage descended at the maximum speed,

72 feet per second, but there was scarcely anyfeeling of motion. Dust everywhere, and black

dust, and the coquettish whitewash came to

an end within a few yards of the main gallery.

The running traction cable overhead, withbiggish guiding wheels whizzing at intervals,

gave an uncanny sensation, which the electric

light did not mitigate in the least. We wereshown a prize pony. Cetait tres touchant.

Perhaps it ought not to have been, but it was.

The miners wore ragged vests or were nakedto the waist. The " going " was hard. Thetemperature steadily rose. We were told to

make the motion of swallowing in order to relieve

the pressure of the air on the ear-drums. Thewomen bore up bravely, each secretly saying to

herself :" If the others can stand it, I can."

Long ago we had passed the little ofhce where the

lamps were tested. At last we reached the coal-

face, amid a forest of wooden pillars. It was" snapping time " (or as some people who live onthe earth's surface might say, " time for a

snack "). In the heavy dusk of the mine, the

men were seated in a row, eating. Contrast

of the white bread against the black hands.

The heat was now intense ; we all visibly per-

spired. Except for the calm and cheerful faces of

69


the miners, it was like a foretaste of the seventh

hell.

This was a model pit, and the conditions wereappalling. The men absolutely insisted, with a

certain childish insistence, that I should " get"

a bit of coal—part of the visiting ritual, to

omit which would offend. So I " got " about

a pound. On the previous Wednesday 2000

tons had been got by 1400 men. One thousand

seven hundred were employed in and above the

pit. On the return journey, the timekeeper, a

taciturn, shrewd, fattish man of fifty, had a talk

with the mighty managing director and pan-

jandrum about the proposed new situation of

a telephone. The timekeeper said curtly :" /

shall keep it where it is for the present," as

if he alone were the deity of the pit. I noticed

a noise like that of escaping steam from someconduits, but it was compressed air, not steam,

that fizzled. Strange, when the cage whizzedupwards there was a very violent ufward draught

of air that travelled much faster than the cage.

•^>

Encased in layers of dirt, we inspected the

huge engine-house. One man, seated in a chair,

directed everything. The winding wheel was

colossal. Little indicators showed the exact

position of each cage as it moved up or down the

shaft, and another indicator, locked in a glass

case like a captive gnome, recorded in ink all the

windings and stoppings aU day and every day.

We were informed with pride that the electric

70

GOING DOWN A COAL-PIT

plant and ventilating machinery were actuated

by the exhaust steam. Yes, this was a highly

up-to-date pit. Luxury was increasing every-

where. The masters had " powerful andluxurious " motor-cars, and splendid residences

in unspoilt rural surroundings. The miners

had the latest appliances for saving their lives.

Something agreeably ironic about this.

71

SELF-CONTROLA MAN once went up in my esteem under the

following circumstances. He was a very cele-

brated novelist and a very intimate friend of

mine. Speaking of a certain critic whom manycreative artists, while admitting that he has

frequently been on the side of the angels, refer

to with disdain, I said that what I objected to

in him was that his necktie was always crooked.

When I went upstairs before dinner I noticed

that my own necktie was conspicuously crooked.

My friend had not mentioned the fact, or evenhinted at it. He knew that I was bound to

discover it for myself. An example of masterly

self-control.

72

RATIONING PETROLThe creation of the Petrol Rations office in

Berkeley Street offers a superlative example of

how not to create an office. The petrol multi-

tude—numbering some hundreds, perhaps five

—

occupied, and occupies, a building of seven

floors. Half the floors and half the multitude

would certainly have been more efficient. Thefollowing is an actual authentic sample of the

dialogues which used to take place between

aspirant young ladies and the incarnation of the

official mind at the Petrol Office :" Have you

had any experience ?" " I'm afraid I haven't."

" Have you any qualifications ?" " I'm afraid I

haven't." " Will you take twenty-two shillings

a week ? " " Oh yes." " Well, then, you are

engaged." No doubt such labour was held to be

cheap. The hours were from 9 to 4, Saturdays

included. One can imagine the whites of the eyes

of the Tory press if young ladies engaged in a

different kind of war-work in the East End were

allotted a 9-to-4 day. But, you see, seven hours

(with an hour off for luncheon) was the official

" Civil Service day." However, there was over-

time. The beneficent device of overtime cameinto operation at 4 p.m., and lady clerks might

raise their week to a maximum of seventy hours,

at yd. per hour for overtime. A war bonus of 2s.

a week was also added. Later, the wages had to

be increased to 25s., but if you had come in at

22s. you had to remain at 22s., even if your job

consisted in supervising the work of newcomers

73


at 25s. The inexperienced and the incompetent

tumbled over each other for many weeks at

Berkeley Street, with consequences profoundly

understood by, for instance, country doctors

;

and the official mind floated blandly immanentin the noisy chaos. As late as October

replies to appealing letters written in August

were being sternly held back for re-copying,

because the date had not been written in the

right official place on the notepaper.

6 January 191 7.

74

DURAND RUELI WENT to see the historic Durand Ruel collec-

tion of pictures. The furniture of the abode

was startlingly different in quality and taste

from the pictures. All the furniture might have

been bought at the Bon Marche. The table in

the dining-room was covered with the chequered

cloth so prevalent in small French households.

(In this room was a still-life hy Monet.) Thedoors, however, were all very ably painted in

panels. Aged and young domestics moved about.

There was a peculiar close smell—no, not peculiar,

because it permeates thousands of Paris homes.

From the front windows was seen a fine view of

St. Lazare station, with whiffs of steam transpir-

ing from the vast edifice. The visitors while

I was there included two Englishmen, one very

well-dressed, though his socks were behind the

times and he had rouged his nostrils ; someAmericans, and four doll-like Japanese. Cer-

tainly the chief languages spoken were Americanand Japanese. The " great " Renoir (the manand woman in the box of a theatre) hung in the

study. It was rather thrilling to see this illustrious

work for the first time, as it were, in the flesh.

There were Monets of all periods, and the latest

period was not the best. A magnificent Cezannelandscape and a few other Cezannes. Manet,Degas, Sisley, Boudin—all notable. Yes, a collec-

tion very limited in scope, but fully worthy of

its reputation. Only it wants hanging. It

simply hasn't a chance where it is. The place

75


is far too small, and the contrast between the

pictures and the furniture altogether far too

disconcerting. Still, the pictures exist, and they

are a proof that a man can possess marvellous

taste in a fine art, while remaining quite in-

sensitive in an applied art.

oAfterwards I called on a painter in Montmartre,

and learnt to my astonishment that it was

precisely he who had painted Durand Ruel's

doors. Seventy doors had been ordered, and

whenever Durand Ruel found the painter painting

anything else, he would say :" But my doors."

The painter told me how Durand Ruel hadbought Renoirs for twenty years without selling.

The " great " Renoir had been sold at Angers

for 400 francs, after a commissioning amateurhad refused to give Renoir 1500 francs for it.

The amateur had said :" Yes, it's very good, of

course, but it isn't what I expected from you."

(They always talk like that—these commissioning

amateurs.) Then Durand Ruel bought it. Andnow he has refused 125,000 francs for it. In

my friend's studio I was told how dealers whospecialise in modern pictures really make their

money. A " lord " wants to dispose of, say, a

Rubens on the quiet. It comes mysteriously to

the dealer, who puts it in a private room, andshows it only to a very few favoured youngpainters, who pronounce upon it. Soon after-

wards it disappears for an unknown destination;

the dealer is vastly enriched, and he goes onspecialising in modern pictures.

76

FOOTBALL MATCHThe ticket - takers were strangely polite, for

the Five Towns. I thought for a moment that

manners were changing there. The Leek players

and partisans made a mass of yellow and white.

They had a dog, with a curious fringe of hair

under his belly, who carried the Leek favours.

They had also a trumpet. But the concerted

music of inspiration was supplied by the LeekTemperance Silver Prize Band. The musicians

wore new uniforms. Their instruments, taken

out of costly cases, lay superb on the grass. Thebig drum had a new strap, and was thus en-

graved :" Artefavente nil desferandumr In fact

this Easter Monday Final was a great occasion.

I noticed with apprehension that the GrandStand showed signs of splitting, and that the

various officials and others crouching in the

crypt beneath it stood a chance of being

crushed under many tons of splintered wood andhuman bodies. A linesman trotted out on to

the ground with a bag of medical and surgical

remedies and some cordial. Soon after the

beginning of the match a man was hurt ; to all

appearances he was mortally wounded, but heseemed to recover very quickly. However, after

a few minutes he retired to the crypt. In

another ten minutes he returned and resumedplay. Almost immediately he was hurt again.

Then there was true pandemonium ; screeching

outcries ; a battle of shrieking between rival

partisans. Girls swore terribly. I heard them


swearing. The hurt man lay on his back,

ignored by the crowd, which was interested

solely in the question whether or not his damagewas due to a foul. Amid the enormous din the

poles of electric tram-cars could be seen swimmingsilently across the high horizon made by the

hoardings at the end of the ground, and the

advertisements of Quakerish chocolates in front

of the Grand Stand continued their silent

effective appeal. Some, with an eye on the

central and supreme figure in the field, suddenly

yelled : " Referee's gen [given] it !" The

yelling replies were : " I should b y well

think he had gen it." " Dirtiest b in all

Staffs," etc. The hurt man got up, and the

crowd had the amiable idea of cheering him.

At half-time the Leek Temperance Silver Prize

Band did a walk round in review order, with the

trombone and another big instrument in front.

Pigeons were let off, and after very slight hesita-

tion departed in the direction of their newspaperoffices. Nothing else struck me, except the

arguments of a Football Company Director,

who was also a Wesleyan and a teetotaller, in

favour of football. This gentleman was not

blind to the significance of certain phenomena of

crowd-psychology which we had witnessed during

the afternoon. He would have been a con-

vinced opponent of the institution of football,

but for one quality of it : football matches keep

people out of public-houses

!

78

PSYCHOLOGY OF RUSSIAA GREAT deal of the talk in the Press of all

countries about pro-Germanism in Russia is

nearly as loose as the talk in the Northcliffe

Press and its imitators about pro-Germanism in

England. According to my conclusions, there is

much less pro-Germanism in Russia than is

generally supposed. Take the Court, and look

at the facts, remembering always that their

Majesties are closely united. The Empressexerts a real influence over the Emperor in

family affairs. Why should she not ? (But

the ruling of Russia is a family affair.) Whenshe went to Russia in 1894 to be married she

was full of English ideas and ideals, and her early

enthusiasm for these things did nothing to

lessen the difficulties inherent in her position.

Her first business, like the first business of every

Empress, was to bear a son. She bore daughters

in 1895, 1897, 1899, and 1901. Imagine her

profound disappointment ! Imagine, also, the

effect upon an admittedly very sensitive womanof the tremendous disaster which attended the

Imperial Coronation in 1896! Then, in 1904,after ten years (less three months) of marriage,

when she had given up hope, she bore a son.

It was inevitable that the Tsarevitch should

become everything to her,—more than every-

thing ! The Tsarevitch fell ill. Rasputin said

he could help the Tsarevitch. The Tsarevitch

got better. Again, Rasputin being exiled, fore-

told a disaster to the Court. The Tsarevitch fell

79


ill. Rasputin was recalled. The Tsarevitch got

better. The position of Rasputin grew un-assailable. The Empress has often been called

superstitious. She may be. But how many-

British mothers, in similar circumstances, wouldnot have displayed an equal superstition ?

The justifiable passion of the Empress for the

Tsarevitch, coupled with her influence over her

husband, changed utterly the orientation of the

Court. The Empress regarded all political

phenomena from one quite simple point of view.

How would they affect the future of the Tsare-

vitch ? If they tended to diminish the powerand the glory which were his by inheritance, they

were bad. If they tended to conserve that powerand glory, they were good. All this strikes meas very natural. The motive ideal of the

Empress is not pro-Germanism but pro-Tsare-

vitchism. Similarly the motive ideal of the

majority of the reactionary Russians is obviously

not pro-Germanism but pro-Russianism andanti - democratism. In justice these " isms

"

ought not to be confused. Russia is an anti-

democratic country. She necessarily regards

England with the reserve with which an anti-

democratic country would regard a democratic

country. Further, it is, I am convinced, an

immense mistake for us to conceive Russia as a

country consisting of 90 per cent, of enlightened

democratic martyrs and 10 per cent, of reactionary

anti-democratic profiteers. Russia is homogene-ous, and she has the bureaucracy which her

80

PSYCHOLOGY OF RUSSIA

characteristics ensured for her. Russians admireEngHsh common sense, but they disdain English

ingenuousness. The profoundest intellectual

Russian quality is cynicism. This is certain.

<^

As in Britain, so in Russia, common sense is

unequally distributed. In some people the

triumph of reason over instinct is less completethan in others. The wiser long ago perceived

that autocracy was inefficient, and was bound to

be so at the present stage of social evolution.

The war has made the fact glaring. The in-

telligent now admit that Russia cannot play her

full part in the war unless autocracy accepts

the co-operation of democracy. Autocracy, in

Russia, as elsewhere, hates the notion of accepting

the co-operation of democracy. No doubt it

also hates the notion of a German triumph, butit sees in a German defeat the defeat of its ownideals. It is in a very awkward position, a

position which must extort the sympathy of the

judicial-minded. It is on the fence, hesitant

and afraid. Part of the autocratic organism

comes down on one side of the fence, part onthe other : which must be rather trying for the

I organism. The military chiefs, for example, are

not democratic. Military chiefs seldom are.

But the military chiefs had taken on a job, andtheir professional pride was at stake. Theysaid to the rest of the organism :

" We want to

win this war, and we will. You are inefficient.

Reform yourselves in the only possible way

—

democratisation." The Duma scene, in which a

F 8i


military chief publicly congratulated a courageous

attacker of privilege and reaction, was a marvellous

exhibition of the victory of reason over instinct.

Stiirmer fell. The outlook for efficiency

brightened. The Empress, with her maternal

obsession of the future prestige of the Tsarevitch,

was far away at the moment of crisis, and (it is

generally believed) was held up by a railway

block. After twenty-four hours Her Majestygot through. The outlook for efficiency darkened.

Trepoff, another reactionary, took the place of

Stiirmer, and to-day Protopopoff, once an extreme

Liberal but now an ardent convert to the Empressand the mystic doctrines of pro-Tsarevitchism,

is Minister of the Interior, the plain opponentof efficiency in food distribution, and one of the

most unpopular men in Russia.

13 'January 191 7.

82

RAILWAY ACCIDENT AT MANTESThere had already been a breakdown in a

tunnel. Officials said that a rotule of an attache

had got broken. It was repaired, and we jolted

onwards at, I should say, about 30 or 35 kilo-

metres an hour. Then just after we passed

Mantes station there was a really terrific jolting.

I knew after four or five jolts that one coach at

any rate had left the metals. I was in a sort of

large Pulmanesque compartment at the back of

the first-class coach, two or three coaches fromthe engine. The windows broke. The corridor

door sailed into the compartment. My stick

flew out of the rack. The table smashed itself.

I clung hard to the arms of my seat, but fell

against an arm-chair in front of me. There was

a noise of splintering, and there were various

other noises. An old woman lay on the floor

crying. I wondered : Shall I remain unharmeduntil the thing stops ? Extreme tension of

waiting for the final stoppage ! Equilibrium at

last, and I was unhurt ! I couldn't get out

at first. Then someone opened the door. I

soothed the old woman. I took my eye-glasses

off and put them in their case. I found my hat

(under some debris), and my stick. My bag

had remained in the rack. I left the train with

my belongings, but I had forgotten all about the

book I was reading, VEve Future. This bookwas all that I lost. Two wounded women were

already lying out on the grass at the side of the

track. Up above, from the street bordering the

83


cutting, crowds of people were gazing curiously

as at a show. One woman asked if she could doanything, and someone said :

" A doctor." I

walked round to the other side of the train, and

a minor official asked me and others to go back.

" Ce n'est fas pour vous commander^ mais . .."

We obeyed. Two coaches lay on their sides.

One of them was unwheeled and partly sticking

in the ground. No sound came from an over-

turned second-class coach, though there were

people in it. Presently some men began lifting

helpless passengers on to cushions which had been

laid on the ground. I had no desire of any sort

to help. I argued uncompassionately that it

was the incompetent railway company's affair.

I held my bag and stick and I looked around. I

didn't want to see any more wounded nor to be

any more impressione than I could help. I hadto get to Paris. I certainly didn't observe things

very accurately nor take in details well. Myrecollection of appearances quickly became vague.

I remember that the face of one woundedwoman was covered with coal-dust. We hadshaved a short goods train standing on the next

line, and the tender of the train was against our

coach. A young American said that it was

sticking into our coach, but I don't think that

it was. He said that the front part of our coach

was entirely telescoped ; but it wasn't entirely

telescoped. It was, however, all smashed up.

My chief impression is of a total wreck brought

about in a few seconds.

84

RAILWAY ACCIDENT AT MANTES

I walked off up the line towards the station,

and met various groups of employees running

towards the train. At last two came with a

stretcher or ambulance. I passed out of the

station into the flace, and a collector feebly

asked me for my ticket, which I didn't give. I

went straight to a garage and demanded an auto

for Paris. But all autos had been taken off to

the scene of the accident. Having been promised

one in due course, I waited some time, and then

had a wash and took tea. I couldn't help eating

and drinking quickly. Then I was told that twoAmericans wanted an auto. I said that they

might share the one promised to me. Agreed.

At last my auto came. The price was lOO francs.

A Frenchman came up who wanted to get to

Paris quickly (he had not been in the accident).

I gave him a place for 20 francs, making a mistake

in dividing 100 by 4. This detail shows how I

really was under my superficial calmness. Wewent off at 5.50. The two Americans, aunt andnephew, chatted freely the whole time, with nosign of nerves, except that the aunt said she

never felt comfortable in an auto. Nothing hadhappened to her, yet the gun-metal clasp of her

handbag was all bent. She discovered this in

the auto, and the discovery made a sensation.

We reached Paris before 8 o'clock. Travelling

by the P.L.M. Railway later in the evening I hada fright each time the crude brakes workedbumpily on stopping at Melun, Bois le Roi, and

Fontainebleau.

85

THE PAPER-SHORTAGETouching the Stunt Press, the recent daily

manifestoes of the Times as to its own circula-

tion do indeed demonstrate the genius whichLord Northcliffe's admirers claim for him—andmost of his foes admit. During the whole of

the present week the Times has openly threatened

its readers with reprisals if a certain proportion

of them do not cease buying the Times. It has

said in effect : We tried i-jd. No result. Wenow try 2d. If there is still no result we shall

go to 3d., and if necessary we " shall not hesitate"

to go even to the old price of yd. At any risk

of increasing our profits we mean to reduce ourcirculation. . .

." Nay, it announces that the

public's patriotic duty is to help to reduce the

circulation of the Times. These manifestoes

reach the summit of originality, and also theyrank high among stunts.

17 February 191 7.

86

THE PATRIOT'S REWARDSidelight on the great Voluntary National

Service regulation :—A prosperous journalist in

the South of England, with a wife and twodaughters, went into the army. He also wentto the Front. He came back from the Front a

physical wreck. The medical authorities quickly

decided that he would no longer be of any use

to the army, whereupon he was turned out of

hospital and left to recover as best he could, of

course at his own expense. He now walks with

a crutch ; but he is a handy man, and prepared

to do anything. As a proof of his intelligence

and resource I may note that when a doctor

told him that country air was absolutely essential

for the restoration of nerves, he set out to walk,

with his crutch and with two shillings in his

pockets, from London to Birmingham. Hesafely arrived in Birmingham, having kept himself

throughout the journey by odd jobs of various

kinds. Within the last few days a friend tried

to find him a situation worthy of his qualities.

This friend was instantly met by the adamantinefact that no firm in the proscribed trades andvocations may now add to its staff any malebetween the ages of eighteen and sixty-one.

Thus the once prosperous journalist, with a

wife and two daughters dependent upon him,

wrecked and ruined by his own patriotism, is

forced, if he is to live, into the humiliations

of the Labour Exchange, with a glorious chance

of snatching twenty-five shillings a week out of

87


the national machine. I wonder whether Mr.Neville Chamberlain, in framing his wonderful

contrivance for the total destruction of industrial

liberty, ever thought of such a case as I have

truthfully described ? And I wonder whether,

if he did think of such a case, he deliberately

decided that discharged soldiers from the Frontdeserved no better treatment than the ruck

of us ?

17 March 191 7.

STYLE" The King and Queen were present at a first

night in a London theatre last evening for the

initial time in their reign." I take this fromthe dramatic criticism, not of a provincial, but of

a London daily. It is quite a first-rate exampleof bad English. The culprit, whose name is

well known to myself and other members of the

London literary police force, evidently thought

that it would be inelegant to use the same wordtwice in two lines ; so he substituted " initial

"

for " first " in the second line. The affair musthave cost him considerable cerebration, and nodoubt he was rather pleased with the elegance

of the result. Perhaps he had never reflected

that words express ideas, and that therefore, if

a precise idea recurs, the precise word for that

idea ought to recur. The idea expressed by the

word "first" is precise enough, and no other

English word means what "" first " means. Cer-tainly " initial " does not mean " first." Still,

the man meant well. His misfortune was that,

having picked up a good notion without examin-ing it, he imagined that repetition was inelegant

in itself. Repetition is only wrong when it is

unintentional, and when, being horrid to the ear,

it is reasonably and honestly avoidable. Onthe other hand, repetition, used with tact andcourage, may achieve not merely elegance butpositive brilliance. What a phrase—" the initial

time "!

89

FINISHING BOOKSTo a novelist who specialises In cases of crime

I happened to mention Albert Bataille's Causes

Criminelles et Mondaines (i8 vols. Paris, 1881-

98). She became enthusiastic about them, and

said they were the finest example of criminal

reporting in the world. So they are. There is

not a star reporter in England or America whocould study Bataille's methods without profit.

As for novelists, all novelists ought to read reports,

of trials. Many novelists do. Better than any-

thing else in print that I know of, honest detailed

reports of trials teach you how people actually

live their daily lives. My friend mentioned twotrials as being of special interest. I had not

read them. I was then reading, in bed at nights,

Stendhal's Rome, Florence, Na-ples, one of the

finest studies of manners in existence—for those

who have understood Stendhal's unique mind.

That night I put Stendhal aside for Albert

Bataille, and for several nights I read and re-read

trials. It might have been the end of Stendhal's

book for me if Rome, Florence, Nappies, were not

a really first-rate work. A test of a first-rate

work, and a test of your sincerity in calling it a

first-rate work, is that you finish it. All of

us can remember instances of books which wehave been enthusiastic about, and which wehave never finished. The enthusiasm must have

been in some degree factitious—probably induced

by exterior suggestion. Such books are, for us,

either dull or tiresome. All dull books are bad,

90

FINISHING BOOKS

and all tiresome books are either bad or maladroit

or both. If we have " stuck " in a book, or if wehave simply forgotten to go on with it, we ought

to have the courage of our personal experience,

and never be enthusiastic about that book again.

For us there is something vitally wrong about

that book, whatever its reputation. So doing,

we should perform a useful sanitary function in

literature. Many dead books remain unburied

and offend the air simply because we dishonestly

pretend that they are alive and kicking. Make nomistake. I duly finished the Stendhal. I finished

it with keen regret. I lingered over the last

pages, hating to reach the last page of all. AndI comforted myself with the thought :

" Well,

in three years I shall have forgotten it enough

to be able to read it again." This is just about

the highest praise that can be given to a book.

91

POLITICS AND MORALSMuch talking with politicians, amateur and

professional, and with political journalists. Astrange delusion seems to be very rife amongsuch people—namely, that characters are in the

main divided into white and black, and that

those who think as you think are white, andthose who don't think as you think are black.

Yet it is absolutely platitudinous to point out

that the great majority of characters are neither

white nor black, but grey. To attempt to divide

mankind into white sheep and black sheep, or

into sheep and goats, is infantile. It is maderidiculous by the personal experience of nearly

everybody. Nor can one assert that a special

honesty or dishonesty is connected with anybrand of political opinion. Nevertheless, I amconstantly meeting men otherwise apparently

intelligent, sometimes very intelligent, whosewhole attitude towards politics is falsified bythis truly singular delusion. All their conversa-

tion implies that the best and the straightest

men are on their side and the crookedest

and least competent men are on the opposing

side. Of course they make exceptions, but in

making exceptions they only emphasise their

delusion. Thus they will say of an opponent :

" He^s an honest chap," thereby indicating that

in their opinion the rest emphatically are not.

To be thus deluded surely proves that one has

fundamentally failed to see human nature as it

is, and therefore that one's judgment in affairs

92

POLITICS AND MORALS

is not worth more than about twopence half-

penny. Nevertheless, some victims of the de-

lusion will go about to lecture the whole world,

and are indeed taken quite seriously hy very large

sections of the community. I admit that they

may have nearly all the qualifications of a first-

rate publicist ; they lack merely the chief quali-

fication—impartial common sense.

The cure for the delusion is ofiice. Even if

you are but a member of Parliament you generally

soon begin to lose it, because you have to mixwith the individuals whom you have beenclassifying as monsters of iniquity, ineptitude,

and incompetence. You are bound to realise

that the bulk of them are curiously like yourself

and your friends, neither better nor worse. Manypolitical journalists attain high position withoutfreeing themselves of the delusion. A fewpoliticians of marked integrity and enormousexperience never get rid of it. These persons

are dangerous to the state and tedious in drawing-

rooms. And they are almost invariably conceited.

If you told them that one set of political opinions

is just about as " good " as the other—that onemakes for progress while the other makes for

stability, both aims being perfectly laudable—^they would freeze you with a righteous disdain,

and in their hearts accuse you of wanting the

best of both worlds. There is only one world.

93

FLAG-DAYSI DOUBT whether recent gestures of the British

Government have done much to diminish the

sinister effect in Petrograd of NorthcHffe articles

and Ministerial utterances in favour of the

ex-Tsar and all the too-chivalrous silences in

favour of the ex-Tsaritsa. In Petrograd England

is regarded as loving royalism for its own august

sake. The impression is, of course, false of the

nation as a whole, but true of some influential

coteries in London. There is shortly to be

another Russian flag-day. Now under the

Russian regime the executive personnel of the

Russian flag-day in London was the last word of

social elegance. It will be interesting to see

whether the old West End enthusiasm has sur-

vived the Revolution. From what I have heard

it will survive, if it does survive, with difficulty;

and I foresee a diminution of zeal on the part of

those ladies without whose names no Londonwar-charity can be called truly chic. Hence, for

myself, I will buy a dozen flags on the Russian

day.

oAt the same time, my objection to flag-days

is increasing. There can be no doubt that the

institution of the flag-day is abused. I had hopedthat after the Queen's flag-day last week weshould have repose in Piccadilly, but when I

returned to town on Wednesday there was yet

another. One is conscious of an irrational andunchristian resentment against the beautiful

94

FLAG-DAYS

and very modish vendors, who are quite innocent

and indeed deserve sympathy and laudation. I

have found a way of nulHfying flag-days. It is

quite simple, and consists in walking slowly past

the flag-sellers, with a kind paternal or fraternal

smile and a dignified deprecatory wave of the

hand. Many men assert that this feat cannot bedone. It can, but naturally it needs a little

practice in order to attain perfection. I have

known it fail only once. While I was in the very

act, the flag-seller said plaintively to me : "Isuppose you don't want to buy a flag." Thesupposition was so correct, displayed such deep

psychological insight, that I felt obliged to

falsify it.

12 May 191 7.

95

PRIVILEGE OF DOGMAThe ending In the House of Lords of the great

case of Bowman v. The Secular Society shows

that the Lord Chancellor has yet to discover

that it is not illegal in this country to seek to

disprove the tenets of Christian dogma. Some-body long ago made a bequest to the Secular

Society, which is anti-Supernatural and pro-

Freedom of Enquiry. The next-of-kin, actuated

no doubt by the highest patriotic and unselfish

motives, contested the validity of the bequest

on the ground that it was criminal to attack the

Christian religion, and that a court of law wouldnot assist in the promotion of such objects as

those of the Secular Society. The Secular

Society won its case in the High Court andalso in the Appeal Court, but the next-of-kin,

having faith in the House of Lords, went higher.

The Lord Chancellor in his judgment justified

their faith and their pertinacity ; but, happily,

Lords Buckmaster, Dunedin, Parker, and Sumnerall disagreed with the sublime head of the Judi-

cature, and the next-of-kin were finally beaten

by four against one. Lord Buckmaster, in a

bland and witty judgment, pointed out that

if the Lord Chancellor's theory held good, the

result would be that editors and publishers

would be able to deny payment to contributors

and authors whom they had expressly employedto write philosophical and scientific articles or

books, if it could be decided that the work was

anti-Christian ; while no one could be compelled

96

PRIVILEGE OF DOGMA

to pay for any such books or articles when pur-

chased. Enchanting prospect—to step into

Hatchard's, seize for your own Professor Bury's

edition of Gibbon, and in answer to a request

for payment, reply :" Shan't ! This book is a

crime, and you're an accessory after the fact

;

and if you make any more fuss I shall come back

with a policeman." Bowman v. The Secular

Society has dragged on nearly as long as the war.

It must have cost thousands of pounds—perhaps

more than the original bequest. But it has

shown what kind of mentality can rise to the

highest judicial place in the realm ; and, inci-

dentally, it permits the Secular Society and the

Rationalist Press Association and the Positivist

Society to continue in being. Progress persists !

19 May 191 7.

97

THE ROYAL ACADEMYThe Royal Academy continues to provide

grandiose evidence in support of its conviction

that the flight of time is an illusion. Nobodycould divine from the display of automobiles

in its quadrangle on a fine afternoon that petrol

for pleasure has been prohibited. You penetrate

within the august building, and there is not a

symptom of an entertainment-tax ticket. Thegross charge for admission is still one shilling.

Determined to suppress every sign of change,

the Academy pays the tax itself and says noword. A noble gesture. In the galleries I

could perceive not the slightest indication of

modernity. I doubt if the Hanging Committeehave chosen a single picture which for reasons

of technique might not have been painted twenty

years ago. One of the places of honour is given

to Mr. Frank Salisbury's immortalisation of a

young naval hero. It has to be seen to be believed.

Mr. Glyn Philpot's portrait of an apache is a

very dignified work. Sir William Orpen has

several portraits, of which the best is Mr. WinstonChurchill—an extremely accomplished piece of

representational art, telling you in the mostvivid and polished language all that you already

knew. Some years ago Sir William Orpen dis-

covered that the inside of a man's hat is full of

episodic interest. He may, indeed, be said to be

the first modern painter to observe that a man's

hat has a concave as well as a convex aspect. Hehas not yet rallied from the obsession of this

98

THE ROYAL ACADEMY

discovery. In the mass R.A. fashionable por-

traits are outshone hy the fashionable portraits

at the Grosvenor Gallery, where Mr. M'Evoy,but yesterday unknown, dominates the scene.

I doubt whether any painter ever exhibited so

many portraits in a general portrait show as Mr.M'Evoy exhibits at the Grosvenor Gallery. Histranslation of Mrs. M'Claren is perhaps the mostdazzling graphic feat of the kind in the present

age. It is not, however, really interesting.

Mr. M'Evoy's water-colours—in the days whenpeople used shamelessly to ask, "Who is M'Evoy ?

"

—used to attract me. Then I suspected that

he had fallen into the habit of putting themunder the tap before framing them. The sus-

picion was confirmed. Then he produced anoil-painting of a boy in a green suit, and it wastoo clever. And now he has become the prince

of fashionable portrait-painters.

26 May 1917.

99

GAMINGI WENT into the little Casino. Onl^ one

table : roulette. The croupier tried to cheat

me after my first throw, but failed. In changing

the counters for money afterwards the money-changer tried to cheat me, but failed. It wasastonishing to see, after so long an interval,

people still believing in systems, as in a religion,

and methodically marking down all the winningnumbers. No systematist has ever explained to

me how, according to him, the result of anyprevious throw can influence the result of anyfuture throw. It would perhaps be too muchto expect a systematist to see that the opera-

tion of the maximum must upset all conceivable

systems, and that herein precisely is the reason

why casino proprietors always insist on maxima.But a systematist out of his common knowledge

of the nature of things ought surely to be able

to perceive that if an infallible system existed

or could exist it would have shut up all roulette

houses long ago. An acquaintance of mine, a

much-travelled novelist and journalist whoought to have known better, once assured methat there were a few inobtrusive men and

women at Monte Carlo who had infallible

systems and who always won. " Then why do

not the authorities turn them out ?" I asked.

He replied :" Obviously because of the ad-

vertisement. They are a standing advertisement

for the tables." When I further inquired whythese possessors of secret systems did not make a

100

GAMING

fortune and retire, the answer was that the

systems only permitted of small gains. If nohistory of human credulity has yet been written,

the disease ought to be monographed like claustro-

phobia or alcoholism. I once played regularly

at Monte Carlo for several hours a day. Were I

to say that I did this in order to enter fully, for

professional literary purposes, into the sensation

of the gambler, I should not be believed. (If

no history of human incredulity has yet beenwritten, etc.) I emerged from the ordeal with600 francs gain. I was writing a series of articles

for T.P.^s Weekly at the time, and I recounted

my experiences and mentioned that I had won600 francs. The editor struck this out. Hesaid that it was not permissible for a contributor

to reveal that he had made a profit out of the

gaming-tables at Monte Carlo ; the moral effect

on readers would be too bad. For this samepaper, in another article, I once wrote that

sometimes at home Lord Tennyson behaved" like a pompous ass." The phrase was strong ;

but I doubt not that it was a protest against the

tone of one of the deceitful little biographies of

Lord Tennyson that somehow get themselves

issued at intervals. The editor cut out the

phrase. He said it was impossible to say in anyrespectable literary weekly that Tennyson ever

under any circumstances behaved like a pompouslass, and that if he had passed the phrase hewould have received thousands of angry complaintsand lost circulation.

lOI

A JUDGMENTWhile I was painting on the beach to-day

a Portuguese workman came up and watched.

French being better understood than English

in Portugal, I asked him if he spoke French." Un foc^'' he replied, and it was un foe. Evi-

dently he took me for a Frenchman. He told

me that he had fought in the war, and gave the

names of several places in a very curious pro-

nunciation, but I seemed to recognise the words" Chapelle " and " Laventie." I asked :

" Etiez-vous pres des Anglais ?"

" Qui. Frani^ais bons four la guerra. Anglais

non bons, nan bons. Anglais tres malhonnetes.^'" Etiez-vousjamais fres des Franqais.''^

" Non. Jamais. Franqais tres bons. Anglais

non bonsTPerhaps part of the explanation was that for

a time he had been, as he informed me, orderly

to a Portuguese general.

I02

PLATE-BREAKINGThe phenomena of the Whitsuntide period

and thereabouts may be divided into the super-

ficial and the opposite. A shiver ran through

every miHtary unit on the southern part of the

East Coast when it became known that enemyaeroplanes had got to Folkestone and the other

place (still unnameable !) from the north without

being officially detected en route. A searching

and drastic inquiry was expected, but no detailed

inquiry has made itself felt. I may say that

nobody was less surprised at the failure to detect

and warn than those members of the Anti-

Aircraft Service who know both the land andthe sea machinery of the organisation, and have

ineffectually criticised it. The bravest feat in

connection with this sanguinary raid was that of

the Times on Monday morning, when, with truly

astounding courage it implied that it had never

believed in Zeppelins, and had always advised

concentration upon measures to counteract aero-

planes. In ten lines the Times practically effaced

the memory of the grand gesture of Lord Beres-

ford in publicly breaking a plate at a Savoybanquet because it happened to have been madein Germany. Lord Beresford, of course, foundeager patriotic imitators at the banquet. Nodoubt he and they forgot, in the ardour of the

moment, that the imported German plates werenot the property of the smashers, and that, after

all, they had been duly paid for by British exports;

also that wanton destruction of useful articles

103

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEinvolves for their replacement the diversion of

goods and services from the war. It probablynever occurred to these gentlemen that they weremaking themselves rather more ridiculous eventhan the related nobles—one a duke and the other

an earl—who utilised an important debate in the

House of Lords for the ventilation of a family

brawl. All such phenomena may be accountedsuperficial. The great inner phenomenon of the

period is that Mr. Lloyd George, to use a phrase

sanctified by Dr. Dillon, is " seeking a neworientation."

2 June 191 7.

104

THE TRUTH ABOUTREVOLUTIONSVerbiage, really remarkable in its unconvinc-

ingness, has been sent over during the week by-

correspondents on the Western Front, probably

under official inspiration. But nothing about

the Western Front can equal in absurdity some

of the stuff that gets printed concerning Russia,

and the stuff that gets printed concerning Russia

is much more sagacious than the stuff that gets

talked concerning Russia—especially in serious

conservative circles, v^^here revolutions are not

understood. There is a large ingenuous bodyof British opinion that evidently expected the

Russian revolution to be carried through,

finished, labelled, and put on the shelf with the

French revolution in a week or ten days—

a

fortnight at the most. It is difficult, without

research, to say exactly how long the French

revolution lasted. Taine annihilates the per-

ception of time in the reader ; his method is the

static, and all the phenomena of French history

from early feudalism to the corruption of the

Empire seem to be co-existent. From Carlyle,

on the contrary, one receives the impression

that the French revolution went on revolving

for forty years or so. Perhaps four years wouldbe about the mark. The Russian revolution, a

far vaster and less coherent thing than the French,

105


has still, therefore, some years to run before

it can fairly be called dilatory by historical

standards. Again, people solemnly ask you :

" What is the truth about Russia ? " It wouldbe nearly as reasonable to ask what is the truth

about that invisible God who of late apparently

has been so often seen. Nobody knows the truth

about the Russian revolution. The hundredbest informed persons in Europe do not, between

them, know the hundredth part of the truth about

it. The truth about it could not be contained

in a work of the dimensions of the Encyclofcedia

Britannica. But surely the fact is obvious that,

whatever the situation may now be in its entirety,

it is an improvement on the situation whichobtained before the revolution. Nobody alive

has the slightest trustworthy idea whether the

war or the revolution will end first. I have hadprivate letters from two recognised non-journal-

istic authorities on Russia, one in Petrograd, the

other in France. Both are hopeful and opti-

mistic. Both count upon the common sense

which is admittedly fundamental in the Russian

character. For myself I count upon the instinct

for self-preservation which is fundamental in all\

characters. Russians are very sensitive to foreign

opinion, and our chief export to Russia should

be faith in Russia. The one article whichRussians do not require from us is patronage.

Of course, we are the world's great protagonists

of freedom and all that—though the Defence

of the Realm Act, which abolished Magna Carta

and Habeas Corpus, was passed by a democratic

106

THE TRUTH ABOUT REVOLUTIONS

Commons without having been even read—but

we are not just now such high experts in liberty

that we can properly treat the Russian revolu-

tionists as children.

9 June 191 7.

107

A GENERALTrue stories against our generals, and especi-

ally against our inspecting generals, are not rare,

but the following is perhaps worth adding to

the collection. I guarantee its authenticity. Ageneral was inspecting a battery, and the majorin command was explaining that the scale onthe ranging-drums needed altering to suit the

new guns, as the latter had a higher muzzle-velocity than the old guns previously used bythe battery. The general asked :

" What is the

muzzle-velocity of the new gun ?" The major

gave the answer. The general said :" Yes, but

at what range ?"

4 August 191 7.

108

MINISTERIAL CANDOURIt is perhaps one proof of Lord Milner's true

granitic greatness that he continues to stick in

the throat of the vast majority of the nation.

The things said of him in the Midlands and the

North could not possibly be printed withoutafflicting if not infuriating the Censor. LordMilner recently took a holiday with his chief.

Enterprise as simple as it was natural ! Andyet the whole country is alarmed thereby. Andno doubt rightly. For it is certain that the

ex-pro-Boer and the iron hero of South Africa

did not tramp over Cader Idris together in

order to pick gentians. If we have a strong,

silent man—and we have—that man is LordMilner. He may be hated, but his character is

respected. It is respected, for example, by the

organising heads of the big departments wherethe war work is really done. These men, thoughthey may differ violently from him in poHtical

principles, prefer him to any other member of

the War Cabinet. So much is beyond question.

In an age of self-advertisement he despises self-

advertisement. I think he is the sole Minister

who does not subscribe to Romeike or Durrant,and the sole Minister who does not conscienti-

ously read his " papers " before breakfast,

—

the said papers being, of course, the newspapers.

He does not care if he is never mentioned—so

long as his principles make headway. My sus-

picion is that he pushes silence too far. Thathe admires Prussia as warmly as The Morning

109


Post admires Prussia is not to be denied. Howindeed should it be otherwise, having regard to

his birth, education, and early environment ?

But there are ways of admiring Prussia, and even

a Cabinet Minister, while keeping his patriotism

pure, may admire Prussia too much.

All Ministers whom destiny has made ridicu-

lous should be subjected to a test. Events in

South Africa have long since made Lord Milner

extremely ridiculous. He was wrong, utterly

and grossly wrong. Can he, does he, see that he

was wrong ? Or has he failed yet to comprehendthe vastness of his ineptitude ? He ought to be

subjected to the test of giving his mature verdict

on the closed chapter of history which he helped

to write. If he would confess in the forum that

he had erred, by prejudice or blindness, he

might ameliorate his position in the great heart

of the people, which, oftener than some folk

imagine, does really beat true. If, on the other

hand, he would positively say : "I am uncon-

verted," then we should know, even more surely

than we do, where we are, and war to the knife

might properly ensue. But Ministers are a

queer tribe. They willingly admit that they

owe their Sundays or their golf or their silken

dalliance to the nation, but it does not seem

to occur to even the most honest of them that

more than anything else they owe candour to

the nation.

29 September 191 7.

no

WHAT IS WRONG WITHTHE THEATRE?Some serious adherents of the stage in Liver-

pool appear to be rather concerned about what is

called the " American invasion." I have heard

it stated that " the great majority " of Londontheatres are at present occupied by Americanplays. This simply is not the fact, and a study

of the theatrical advertisements of the Londondailies will show that it is not the fact. Themajority—to say nothing of the great majority

—

of London theatres are not occupied by Americanplays. Only a minority are so occupied, I do

not feel in the least disturbed by the Americaninvasion. I might be somewhat disturbed if noEnglish plays were produced in New York. Butit is well known that English plays, and manyEnglish plays, are produced in New York. Theexchange can only be advantageous. Moreover,

if American plays are produced in London, there

can be but one reason for it—the public likes

these American plays. Why should not the

pubHc have what it likes ? If the public showeda preference for Timbuctoo plays I should not

complain. I should merely try to understand

what was the quality in Timbuctoo plays that

appealed to the British public. If half a dozenAmerican plays succeed simultaneously in Londonthere must be some rational explanation of the

phenomenon. American plays are in the maineven more sentimental than English plays, andthe explanation of their success probably lies in

III

[

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEthis—that the sentimentaHty is done in a moreworkmanlike and thorough manner than English

playwrights have yet achieved. Personally I

have no use whatever for excessive sugar on the

stage—I prefer salt—but I recognise that sugar

can be whole-heartedly or half-heartedly mani-pulated in a play. Further, American dramatists

seem to me to take more trouble than British

dramatists in the fabrication of an attractive,|

outwardly novel, and easily graspable theme. '

You know where you are in an American play, i

In sum, it is conceivable that English dramatistsj

may have something to learn from American 1

dramatists in the concoction of a sentimental\

play. Horrid thought, of course ; but one not

to be lightly dismissed. At any rate I do not

and cannot believe the legend, so sedulously

spread in the Press, that the British public goes

to see certain plays against its will because

British managers refuse to give it better stuff.

Such a notion is totally absurd. Everybodyconnected with the theatre knows that it is as

easy to make an unthirsty horse drink as to makethe public pay to witness plays against its will.

If profit accrues from the production of Americanplays or any other plays in England, you may be

absolutely sure that the public has enjoyed those

plays.

Another fallacy calls for exposure. Namely,that there are lots of really good English plays

written which cannot get a hearing in Englandbecause managers are so terribly commercial-

112

WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE THEATRE ?

minded. Nothing of the kind. The number of

really good plays hopelessly awaiting performance

is infinitesimal. Really good plays or even fairly

good plays, or even plays with a particle of

promise in them, are very seldom written byunknown aspirants in this country. Plenty of

promising novels are written ; scarcely any

promising plays. I know, because I am connected

with the management of the Lyric Opera House,

Hammersmith, which advertised its urgent desire

to obtain promising plays, which has received

and read hundreds of plays, and which has not

found three possible ones in a year. The piles

of pure trash that postmen have delivered at

Hammersmith during the last eight monthsappal the imagination. To my mind the chief

answer to the question, " What is wrong with

the theatre ?" is plain enough. The root of

the evil is not in the innocent public. Nor is it

in the commercial-minded managers, who, bythe way, are not a whit more commercial-

minded than the publishers of books. It is in

the extreme and notorious paucity of interesting

plays. Dramatists must, in the logical sequence

of things, precede actors, managers, producers,

scenic artists, and public. The first requisite

of the theatre is a play. And when interesting

plays begin to be written in appreciable numbers,

the theatre will begin to improve. Not before.

15 September 1919.

H 113

THE FARMER'S ATTITUDEI HAD a scientific and enthusiastic farmer and

breeder, a Radical friend of mine, to dinner last'

Saturday night. He said : " Were you at ;

Market to-day ? " I said : " You know I

wasn't." He said : " Well, you ought to have I

been. It was well worth seeing. There werej

something over a hundred pigs. On Monday '

pigs were selling at 22s. a score live weight.

To-day the Food Control people came into the

market, and took all the pigs, weighed them, i

and marked their prices on the basis of the newmaximum of i8s. a score. Auctions were sus-

pended. The butchers appointed a committee

to settle which butcher should buy which pig,

and local butchers had a preference. Those

farmers who could afford it walked their pigs

home again. There will be practically no pigs

in Market next Saturday, because pigs can't

be sold at i8s. a score live weight without loss."

I said :" But you people can't keep your pigs

for ever. You're bound to sell sooner or later

even at a loss." He said :" My dear fellow, every

day this week I shall have people pestering meto sell pigs to them at over the maximum price.

Quite easy. For instance, there's no maximumon calves, and I can sell half a dozen pigs and a

couple of calves in one lot at a lump sum price.

And I'm free to sell pigs for breeding purposes.

If a man tells me he wants pigs for breeding

purposes I'm not going to hold a court of inquiry

about his plans. I have to live. And I can't

114

THE FARMER'S ATTITUDE

live out of bullocks, for instance. Every bullock

I sell means a dead loss to me of at least ^8. Ofcourse the price of foodstuffs has been reduced,

but not enough. Also foodstuffs are constantly

being sold at over the maximum. I tell youthat most people who have taken steps to increase

production have been caught. Look at flax.

We were urged to grow flax—urged ! Risky

crop. We didn't know much about it. Just as

it was ripening the Government commandeeredthe lot, at a price that left farmers decidedly

out of pocket." I said :" What will be the

result of all this ? " He said :" You will see

what will be the result next year. And it will

be interesting then to listen to you coUectivist

chaps. Production is being dried up, that's

what's occurring. And if you think that farmers

haven't got a real grievance and aren't really

resentful—at any rate in this district, where it

happens that nobody has made a cent on corn

crops—well, you never were more mistaken in

your life." The foregoing pretends to be nothing

but an accurate precis of a conversation.

17 November 191 7.

115

FREEDOM OF DISCUSSIONFor forty years, ever since the pure milk of

Toryism was first poured into my very youthful

mind, I have continually heard that the House

of Commons was degenerating. But I had

never believed it until the regime of coalitions|

began. I now fully believe it. Indeed, I am|

inclined to think that the House of Commons ;

is not only degenerate but dead, though a few

interested people for their own purposes strive

ingeniously to maintain the illusion that the,

corpse still breathes. No more dramatic illus- l|

tration of the nonentity of the House of Commonscould be desired than the manner in which the

offensive censorship of pamphlets has been with-

drawn. True, the thing really has been with-

drawn ; the authorities really have climbed

down ; and the victory is quite remarkable.

But the victory ought to have been won openly

on the floor of the House, not bargained out

by secret negotiations in which the House was

disdainfully and completely ignored. The blow

to the prestige of Parliament is severe. Andafter the craven behaviour of the House in this

and other kindred matters, I am not prepared to

say that the blow was undeserved. The episode

is the more extraordinary in view of the fact

that the moral power of the official leader of the

Opposition is admittedly enormous.

In justice to legislators generally I ought toj

add that one or two of them have indeed spoke

ii6

FREEDOM OF DISCUSSION

with force in this matter. The following extract

from a speech will touch the hearts of all lovers

of common sense :" The mandate seems to have

gone forth to the sovereign people of this country

that they must be silent while those things are

being done by their Government which mostvitally concern their well-being, their happiness,

and their lives. To-day and for weeks past

honest and law-abiding citizens of this country

are being terrorised and outraged in their rights

by those sworn to uphold the laws and protect

the rights of the people. I have in my posses-

sion numerous affidavits establishing the fact

that . . . private residences are being invaded,

loyal citizens of undoubted integrity and probity

arrested and cross-examined, and the most sacred

constitutional rights violated. It appears to be

the purpose of those conducting this campaignto throw the country into a state of terror, to

coerce public opinion, to stifle criticism, and to

suppress discussion of the great issues involved

in the war. I think all men recognise that in

time of war the citizen must surrender somerights for the common good which he is entitled

to enjoy in time of peace. But, sir, the right

to control their own Government according to

constitutional forms is not one of the rights

that the citizens of this country are called uponto surrender in time of war. Rather in time of

war the citizen must be more alert to the pre-

servation of his right to control his Government.He must beware of those precedents in support

of arbitrary action by administrative officials."

117


And so on, to :" If the people are to carry on

this great war, if pubHc opinion is to be en-

lightened and intelligent, there must be free

discussion." Let no reader rush to Hansardin order to study at length this allocution in

Mr. Asquith's best manner. It was uttered,

not in the House of Commons, but in the

United States Senate, and I have taken it fromthe official Congressional Record.

oMeanwhile, as is natural, the executive of the

Irish Government copies the great exemplar in

London. By way of soothing Sinn Fein andcutting the ground from under the Spanish

feet of Edmund de Valera, M.P., the Dublinpolice have raided the shops of a few aged

persons who sold Sinn Fein postcards and have

been selling them unmolested for months. Nownothing could be cruder, more infantile, and less

" frightful " than a Sinn Fein postcard. I once

examined the stock of one of these little shops

with a view to collecting some really rebellious

literature, but the show was so poor that I could

not bring myself to spend a single halfpenny onit. Further, twelve small Dublin children have

been summoned to the police-court and solemnly

fined one shilling apiece—for collecting moneytowards a fund to provide for the dependantsof rebels killed in Easter week !

I December 191 7.

A very pleasing example of the Government118

FREEDOM OF DISCUSSION

control of opinion has been brought to mynotice. A man was going to the United States,

and before he started his baggage was duly

examined according to the principles of the

official mind. The examiner, sequestrating

certain printed matter, said to the traveller :

" You are not permitted to take these papers

with 70U to New York." " But," cried the

traveller, " they are the recent issues of The 'New

Re-public which I've just received from NewYork." Said the examiner :

" I don't knowanything about that. You can't take them."And the traveller did not take them.

15 December 191 7.

And, speaking of opinion, there has been a

good deal of control of opinion in the matter of

Lord Lansdowne's letter. Not only was FrenchPress opinion about the letter grossly misrepre-

sented in the London Press, but London Press

opinion was grossly misrepresented in the FrenchPress—until, of course, the posts had had time

to overtake the cables. The Manchester Guardianresentfully asks why Renter failed to telegraph

a less inaccurate account. (Incidentally, let mesay that not Renter alone among telegraphists

was to blame.) This question seems to me to be

a very odd question to come from a newspaper.

Reuter is the wholesaler. The Manchester

Guardian is the retailer who sells goods to the

public. The effect would be surprising if a shop

put up a notice in its windows as follows :" The

119

THINGS THAT HA\TE INTERESTED ME

goods which we sold to you last week were not

what they pretended to be. Why ?" Even

the most benign and fatuous public would retort

that if the retailer did not know why, it was his

business to find out why, and to state why, and

finally to arrive at an understanding with the

wholesaler, I bring no accusation against Renter,

but it is obvious that the fault was either Renter's

or the Censor's ; and it is equally obvious that

daily papers, being customers buying goods from

Reuter for commercial purposes, are well entitled

to make an effective fuss when the goods supplied

have for any reason been proved to be unsatis-

factory. No telegraphic agency can continue

to exist without the support of daily papers,

and I have never been able to understand the

habit which daily papers have of referring to

telegraphic agencies as though they were almighty

and inscrutable gods. It is notorious that for

decades past public opinion in the Colonies and

Dependencies has been seriously influenced bythe political prejudices of telegraphic agencies

;

but colonial and similar newspapers are far less

powerful to protect themselves, assuming that

they wanted to protect themselves, than the

earthquaking organs of this isle. The Manchester

Guardian can easily obtain and print the answer

to its own question ; and if it has not done so,

I suggest, as one of its most faithful subscribers,

that it ought to do so immediately.

15 December 191 7.

120

WAGNER AFTER THE WAROver thirty years ago I first heard Die Meister-

singer, in Italian, at Covent Garden. I stood ontiptoe at the back of the farthest gallery, the

price of which, I think, was half a crown. I

could make nothing whatever of the affair ; but

I was very proud and even conceited the next

day, for it was my first Wagner performance.

The house was packed in every part then. Andit was packed in every part last night, when I

heard the opera in English for the first time.

Covent Garden is very English ; saturated with

English tradition. It is vast and shabby, andthe most beautiful theatrical interior in London—far more beautiful than the Scala at Milan,

or the Paris Opera House, or the Costanzi at

Rome, but surpassed at Florence in both shabbi-

ness and beauty. Nearly the whole of the

audience was seated before the lights were turned

down ; and when they were turned down the

place became magical. The immense arch

separating the amphitheatre from the body of

the auditorium crossed the immense dim gilded

curves of the tiers. Close at hand sculptured

candelabra, thick with grime, were silhouetted

grossly against the faint diffused light. On the

wall of the top gallery, infinitely above anddistant, one purple-shaded electric lamp gleamed.

The forms of the tiny people in the gallery

could scarcely be discerned ; they were mysterious

and impressive, and the crowded rows in the

stalls not less so, nor the superior persons in the

121


innumerable discreet alcoves called boxes. Hereand there a screened lamp threw its ray on the

word " Exit," obeying the ordinance of pubhcauthority. A match flared up in a box occupied

by the wife of a very prominent statesman

;

someone there, slave of the cigarette, still deemedhimself above the law. I could hear muffled

footsteps in the corridor behind me. I knewthat in the enormous once-handsome foyer,

itself larger than many theatres, decorated with

excellent paintings and disfigured by the most

abominable architectural alterations, the bar

girls were ready for their work, and that outside

were some scores of automobiles, and that onthe stage at various altitudes scores of artistes

and mechanics were waiting. The conductor,

in the dimensions of a doll, raised his stick

over the hidden orchestra. The most dramatic

moment in any great opera is when the first

chord is sounded. The die is cast then, the

boats burnt, the battle opened. Any one of

perhaps a hundred individuals can bring absolute

disaster to the business ; the risks of some fatal

failure in co-operation are tremendous;

yet

absolute disaster never occurs. . . .

The curtain rose. The church choruses,

gently lifting and subsiding, seemed to tranquillise

the orchestra. Thrilling and overwhelmingbeauty was achieved. It was a sublime exampleof the power of art to triumph easily over pre-

judices and hatred and resentments. For Wagnerwas a modern German ; he was a very German

122

WAGNER AFTER THE WARGerman ; he had little use for the English. Theopera is intensely German. Our troops were still

occupying Germany. Only the previous weekour officers had suffered outrageous insults at

the hands of truculent Germans. Yet here weall were, charmed, enthralled, enthusiastic,

passionately grateful ! Seventy-five years since

Wagner had begun the composition of this

colossal and lovely work, this most singular

opera whose purely philosophic theme is the

conflict between the classical and the romantic !

What a droll, impossible theme for an opera !

But the terrific pure original force and beauty

of its inspiration and execution had overcometime and us. The performance was worthy of

the occasion : beautiful singing, excellent playing,

good acting, admirable and ingenioias stage-

management. Only the costumes and scenery

were cursed with the curse of sordid and pre-

tentious ugliness which lies upon all indigenous

productions at Covent Garden. In thirty-one

years I have seen no visually beautiful production

at Covent Garden except the Russian ballet.

123

CHARITY CARNIVALSA NUMBER of people seem to be at last waking

up to the economic fudginess of the grand,

impressive institution of the war-charity martand carnival. Women of unbridled patriotism

go to these vast stunts and make purchases of

all sorts, and then defend their conduct on the

plea that the money goes to charity. It does,

in so far as the affair is a success ; but the ladies

in question have not given anything to charity.

As a rule—especially when they leave their

transactions to the final day—they have merely

acquired, on terms very advantageous to them-selves, goods whose production has absorbed rawmaterial and labour which might have been

more usefully employed. Likewise, in witnessing

carnivals or other shows, they have merely

indulged their taste for glitter and snobbishness.

In neither case have they " helped the war " in

an efficient manner. Many women do workreally hard in arranging these undertakings

(though they are not always the identical womenwho receive the praise of the illustrated press)

;

but, on the other hand, many of them un-

questionably lend a hand, or a face, or a leg, in

order to satisfy the primeval passion for pictur-

esque self-exhibition.

As a means of raising money nearly the whole

of the mart and carnival business is extremely

wasteful, even when it succeeds in amassing

considerable sums of money ; but sometimes

124

CHARITY CARNIVALS

there is an actual deficit. The present reaction

is due, I am afraid, less to the direct perception

of economic truths than to grave personal

inconvenience and disappointment caused bythe amateurish and exasperatingly foolish

organisation, or rather lack of organisation,

which has been noticeable in certain grandiose

efforts. Two arguments are used in favour of

the continuance of the great fashionable industry.

The first is that money could not be raised in

any other way. To which the answer is that it

has been and it stiU could be. The second is

that an appreciable section of our educated andrefined womanhood would do nothing " for the

war " if they were not allowed to do just this.

To which the answer is that, on the whole, it

would be better " for the war " if they did

nothing. In many windows of small provincial

towns you see a card bearing the words :" A

Man has gone from this house to fight for Kingand Country." It would not be a bad plan, if

the charity mart and carnival business were to

wither under the sirocco of public opinion, to

have cards prepared for certain residences in

certain select West End streets :" A Lady is

idling in this house "

15 December 191 7.

125

A LEGAL BANQUETThe most stimulating incident at the Gray's

Inn dinner to meet the Prime Minister, as to

which expectation rose so high and realisation

fell so low, was the short speech of Lord Halsbury,

aged ninety-six, in reply to the toast of his

health, proposed after the end of the formal

programme. The vigour and directness of this

old man are still astounding. " We have heard

to-night some things with which we heartily

agree," said the illustrious Die-hard, and added,

with malicious reluctance, " and many things

in which—I suppose—we must acquiesce." It

was a good saying, and Lord Halsbury brought

the house down far more effectively than Mr.Lloyd George when, in speaking alike of Prussian

treaty-breakers and of Englishmen who supported

the war in 1914 and now don't support it, he

made, with immense gusto, the broad remark :

" We all know that a man who enters into a

bargain and then backs out of it is a dirty

scoundrel."

yd"

Mr. Lloyd George himself looked a strong

and independent individuality. (But then LordBeaverbrook was not, I think, present. At anyrate he was not in his advertised place.) Thetone and phrasing of the Prime Minister's refer-

ences to Lord Lansdowne were histrionically

very clever. But there was little in his speech

beyond one or two rather happy similes. Hebegan by saying that the speech was addressed

126

A LEGAL BANQUET

to the nation. Conceivably it may have suited

the nation, but the assemblage of inside experts

found the procession of platitudes somewhattedious towards the close. When the speaker

ceased to manipulate his eye-glasses and dropped

his notes, everyone waited for a grand climax.

Forensic skill, however, seemed to falter at the

critical moment. The peroration was muchbetter to read than to hear. The voice lacked

conviction. Do not suppose that the per-

formance was a failure. As a task in the

spectacular day's work of an extremely harassed

Prime Minister it went through with fair

efficiency, even with credit. But as an energising

stream for the reinforcement of men at once

intelligent and candid, it simply did not exist.

As the diners were invited to meet not only

the Prime Minister but the " Heads of the Air

Force," and the night, after the Prime Minister

had sat down, became distinctly aerial, it was a

pity that in no speech was any reference madeto the very prominent part in the air played by

Canadians and AustraHans. I am not in favour^

of making a song about Colonials at the expense

of the mere Briton ; but the fighting heads

of the Air Force themselves make a quite special

song concerning the extremely helpful enthusiasm

of Colonials about the air. In one congratulatory

speech, referring to the youthfulness of the mainbody of air-fighters, it was said that many of thembut for the war would still be at Eton or Harrow.

This perfectly well-meant conventional phrase

127


was taken up with spirit in the Service reply to

the toast, and the fact was stressed that far morefighting aviators came from Board-schools than

from Eton or Harrow. Indeed the democratic

system of promotion in the Air Force got a free

advertisement, and drew applause which was

noticeable without being vulgar.

22 December 191 7.

128

MUSICAL COMPOSERS WHOGET A HEARINGThe following extract from the Sunday Express

shows how some musical-comedy music is written.

It ought not to be lost to the world in the files

of a newspaper. It needs no comment :

" Cannot Read a Note

" Society, Ltd. is entirely a two-manproduction, the two Arthurs responsible

for it writing it together when staying upthe river. Arthur Carrington is one of

those rare people who, having a remark-

ably good natural ear, can play any music

once heard. Consequently, though he has

travelled all over the Continent to hear

good music he has never had a lesson andcannot read a single note, each chord of

his setting for Society, Ltd. having been

transcribed by a musician as the composer

played it on the piano. He is forty-nine

years of age, and has only recently discovered

that he had any gift for musical composition."

21 March 1920.

129

FREE-HANDEDNESSDr. p. had a young patient whose father is a

big employer and very wealthy. The youth was

suffering from tuberculosis in some form, and

Dr. P. suggested that a specialist should be

consulted. " The best," said the father. Aconsultation was arranged with the very eminent

Dr. Q. Dr. P. was five minutes late for the

appointment, and found the patient, the father,

and Dr. Q. already assembled. The father was

telHng Dr. Q. wonderful tales about Dr. P.

After some more general conversation the father

suddenly said :" Now, gentlemen, let's get to

business," as though at a Directors' meeting.

Dr. Q.'s verdict was sufficiently serious. At the

end the father said :" Now, doctor, how much

is your fee ? " Dr. Q. said five guineas." What ?

" cried the father. Dr. Q. repeated,

five guineas. The father looked at Dr. P. and

said :" I thought you'd brought me to the

best man in London ? " " So I have," said Dr.

P. " What ?" cried the father again to Dr. Q.

" You're the best man in London and you only

charge five guineas ! You'll have to take more."

Dr. Q. said that five guineas was his charge, andhe shouldn't take more. " You'll have to," said

the father, and pulled a roll of pound-notes out

of his pocket two inches thick, fastened with twoindiarubber bands. He wet his thumb andbegan to count—up to ten. He then felt in his

waistcoat pocket for a ten-shilling note, but

couldn't find one. " Never mind," he said.

130

FREE-HANDEDNESS

" Here's an extra ten shillings for luck, doctor," andthen added an eleventh pound-note, and offered

the money to Dr. Q., who protested. " Either

you'll take 'em or they'll go in the fire." Dr. Q.took the money. The father then proceeded :

" Now, doctor, this is an important day in mylife, meeting the top man in London in his line.

I don't mind telling you I had a bottle of VeuveClikko at my London office before I came. Nowyou must come with me, and you too. Dr. P.,

and we'll have another bottle. I've got my car

waiting at the door. She was a damned clever

old woman, was that widow." It took the twodoctors some time to make the father understand

that they wouldn't and couldn't come. So he

went off with his son, whose serious state did not

seem to trouble him in the least.

131

HARDSHIPS OF THERULING CLASSFood- QUEUES are annoying, not merely or

chiefly to the classes which constitute them, butto the ruling class—partly because they are held

to be the seed-bed of disaffection, and partly

because they are an offence to the eye and a

disturbance to the soft heart of the ruling class.

The ruling class can splendidly tolerate the mostghastly inconvenience to the other classes so long

as it is not forced upon its august attention.

But what can be more exasperating to membersof the ruling class than a quarter-mile queue of

dirty and shivering children, women, and old

men, in the immediate neighbourhood of a great

railway terminus when the exodus for Christmas

holidays is in full swing ? Even the plenteous-

ness of food in the few remaining restaurant-cars

will not suffice to expel the memory of those

queues. And Heaven knows that food is still

plenteous in the restaurant-cars ! You pay, for

instance, a fixed price for breakfast, and three

rich rashers of bacon and a couple of eggs, besides

porridge, butter, sugar, marmalade, and jams

are forced upon you. You are not permitted to

pay half-price for, say, one rasher and one egg.

You must put your money down for three rashers

and two eggs, and naturally you don't want to

lose what you have paid for. The arrangement

is characteristic of that glorious survival, the

British railway company. Hotels and their

restaurants are more harsh, but then they are

132

HARDSHIPS OF THE RULING CLASS

not managed by railway directors. In the mostchic restaurants of the West End you cannot get

butter, or any substitute for it, at either lunch or

dinner. The most exclusive clubs are the scene

of terrible hardships in the matter of sugar. Sothat it can no more be said that the wealthy are

not bearing their fair share of the horrors of war.

The blockade, indeed, is certainly getting stricter.

oNevertheless, the blockade seems still to leak,

even in the West End, far from restaurant-cars.

The other day a customer went into a perfectly

respectable tea-shop, and had a carefully rationed

afternoon tea at a table. He then demanded of

the waitress :" Can I have some cake ? " To

which the waitress repHed :" Well, sir, it's like

this. I'm forbidden to serve you with any cake,

but if you go to that counter and buy a cake in a

bag, you can bring it to this table and eat it here."

If Lord Rhondda has not yet made a serious

attempt to see life steadily and see it whole in

the only manner proper for a Food Controller,

that is, by doing the Haroun-al-Raschid stunt in

tea-shops, I suggest that he might well begin a

tour at once.

29 December 191 7.

133

CAILLAUXJoseph Caillaux is finding a great deal of

support in the Press, both French and English.

And among this support none is more remarkable,

even if it be not surprising, than that of the

Paris correspondent of the Manchester Guardian^

who actually compared him, before he publicly-

compared himself, with Dreyfus—^hinting that

he may be a martyr ! There are three points

in the Caillaux aifair which need notice. Thefirst point is that the real basis of the charges

against him is apparently never mentioned in

the newspapers. The real basis is that he is

supposed to have been acting in the interests of

big German-controlled business concerns whichsurvive in France under French or Swiss auspices

and names. Hence, it is said, his pacifism andhis anti-Englishness. The second point is that

the trial of Caillaux, whatever form it takes, will

probably prove nothing. The gang of adventurers

who infest French politics are all mixed uptogether, and each individual can, to a very large

extent, protect himself in a moment of crisis

by threatening revelations about the others.

This fact is notorious. For myself, I shall

be surprised if Caillaux comes to any real harmat the trial. As to whether or not he is guilty

of taking German money I am not prepared to

oflFer an opinion. The third point is that, even

assuming Caillaux to be innocent of venaHty,

and admitting all his personal charm, the nimble-

ness of his wit and his extraordinary readiness of

134

CAILLAUX

resource, he has one fatal defect. He is a fool.

I doubt whether there exists in Europeanstatesmanship to-day another man so completely

bereft of common sense as Caillaux. Some say

he is mad. He may be, though I doubt it. Butthat he has again and again behaved with the

most astounding silliness cannot be seriously

disputed. He has carried foolery to a degree

at which, in a politician, it is the equivalent of

crime.

29 December 191 7.

135

TEACHING HISTORYI FIND signs of an improvement in the methods

of teaching history—even in public schools.

Indeed, it seems probable that public schools

are awakening to the fact that there is such a

thing as a world-movement. Many readers will

share the stupefaction and delight with which I

learnt that one of the oldest pubHc schools in

England—Oundle—has recently erected a special

building, and rather a fine building, for the studyof industrial and economic history, etc. Ofcourse, it is chiefly a Hbran'. By the Oundlemethod the boys work in groups, or sometimessingly, upon a given subject. The labour of

research is di\'ided into sections, and each grouptakes up a definite section, reading the authorities,

and making original maps, charts, and graphs.

The various sections are then collated into

a grand combined pow-wow. Thus in the

Michaelmas term last year the subject of Slavery

was taken, under five sections : (i.) Classical

Times, (ii.) Africa, (iii.) America, (iv.) AmericanCi^il War, (v.) Slavery in Relation to England.

The scope of the affair was evidently enormous.

That the choice of authorities was catholic wasindicated by the detail that under section (iii.)

was included Mark Twain's greatest masterpiece.

(Need I say that Mark Twain's greatest master-

piece is Life on the Mississippi :) My first

thought naturally was, on glancing through the

vast syllabus :" Yes, this is all very well. But

what about slavery in England ?" I then

136

TEACHING HISTORY

discovered that the subject for the present termis precisely " The Enslavement of the WorkingClasses and the Struggle for Freedom," of whichthe third and fourth sections comprise, " Child

Labour and Factory Life in England," and" Adult Labour in England." The authors

studied under these sections include Cobbett,

Sadler, Rogers, the Hammonds, and G. D. H.Cole. I seem to remember the epoch when in

the Eton curriculum, as a concession to modernideas, wood-carving was admitted as an alterna-

tive to (I think) either Greek or German. As I

have not the Eton curriculum before me I cannot

be exact, but anyhow the alternative had an

element of prodigiosity. That epoch is appar-

ently passing. Oundle belongs to the Worshipful

Company of Grocers, and its growth during the

last twenty years has been tremendous.

1 6 February 191 8.

137

FOR AND AGAINSTPROHIBITIONThe mistress of the house being away, I had a

male party for Easter. We talked quite a lot

about alcohol. Not many men can talk intelli-

gently about drink, but far more can talk in-

telligently about drink than about food. A fewdays previously I had been to the dinner given

to H. G. Wells by George Newnes Limited to

celebrate the completion of The Outline of

History. There was only one wine at that dinner,

Bollinger 191 1, a wine that will soon be extinct.

It was perfect, as perfect as the cigars. I nowgot up one of my rare remaining bottles of it.

We decided that no champagne could beat it,

even if any could equal it, and I once again

abandoned the belief, put into me by certain

experts, that the finest 191 1 champagnes wereKrug and Due de Montebello. We relished

various wines, clarets, burgundies, and ports,

ranging up to fifty years old ; together with old

brandy. It was inevitable that we should

discuss that subject upon which the arguments

are apparently as forcible on one side as on the

other—American prohibition. Would the veto

be withdrawn ? Or would prohibitionism spread

gradually through the world ? I have never

been able to believe that the great historical

institution of alcohol, whose use has heightened

and commemorated so many tremendous events,

could be destroyed in spite of the vast influence

138

FOR AND AGAINST PROHIBITION

of almost universal human appetite. But a

doctor who was among us conceived a future

in which man in general would procure daily

enjoyment and ecstasy on a plane less sensual

than the present one. When he had amplified

his idea it was possible to imagine an epoch whenalcohol would be looked back upon as barbaric

and a very inefficient vehicle of pleasure, andwhen the cellarage of Rheims would be regarded

as the Catacombs are regarded. But some other

vehicle will have been devised before this can

happen. In the meantime alcohol produces a

delightful social atmosphere that nothing else

can produce. Only its next-mornings are not

triumphant. Of course I do not trouble to say

that the morrow of an orgy is not triumphant

—

that goes without saying. I mean even the

morrows of temperate indulgence. After a few

days of this male holiday I discovered myself

anticipating with some eagerness the next mealand the next glass. My sleep became even moreinsecure than usual, and a feeling of malaise

infected the first hours of the day. Yet I never

drank more than one glass of champagne at night,

and perhaps a spoonful of brandy. No whisky,

and, above all, no liqueurs. Almost the smallest

quantity of alcohol taken regularly day after daywill clog my own particular machine. I wasdriven by the force of intimate facts nearly to

the extreme position of the late Victor Horsley

about alcohol. And on the last day of the holi-

day, so that I might be reasonably ready for the

first day of work, I was obliged to decide that I

139


would drink no alcohol at all. I had to get .,

alcohol not merely out of my body but out of ^^

my thoughts. Still, during the hoHday, alcohol It

did at moments create a unique zest for sHpl

existence.

are

brig

afte:

ovei

and

oil

Tli(

in

adv

bs

the

cat

itr

140

HINDLE WAKESIt has been a fairly momentous week, full of

shipbuilding " mysteries " that thousands of

people could very well explain if they were

allowed, and of Siberian mysteries which really

are mysteries. Nevertheless, Trafalgar Square,

brightly illuminated in the evening, gave night

after night an uncanny illusion of the war being

over and air raids a mere memory. The orchestra

and the strings of lights and the moving crowds

of dark silhouettes under the glare resembled

nothing so much as Hindle Wakes. But to give

green electric eyes to Nelson's lions was a mistake.

The National War Savings Committee, admirable

in nearly every way, has often accepted badadvice in matters of art. The gigantic scenic

paintings which hide the fagades of the National

Gallery and the Royal Exchange are regrettable

in their extreme mediocrity, and they might so

easily have been both beautiful and striking. I

suppose that the financial results of the week of

hustle are, as a whole, considered very satisfactory,

though the returns of the Trafalgar Square Tankcannot possibly be so considered. And really

Glasgow and the other great provincial com-petitors must have thought that London played

it rather low down on them in getting an enormoussubscription for War Bonds from the Commis-sioners for the Reduction of the National Debt.

The notion of these Commissioners employing

their resources to increase the National Debtdoubtless gave intense pleasure to the brains that

141


thought of it. At any rate, during one weekthe citizens have subscribed, without the impetusof a set Loan, vastly more than the country has

spent—^which is somewhat novel.

9 March 1918.

142

HOTEL MORNINGSThe bell-indicator, and the sole bell, for the

entire floor are just outside my bedroom. Thefirst ring disturbs me about seven-fifteen. After

that, for half an hour, the rings are sporadic, very-

infrequent ; but from a quarter to eight to eight

o'clock their frequency rapidly increases, until at

the hour the bell seems to be ringing almost con-

tinuously,—expression of the collective, urgent,

insistent, ruthless desire of the population of the

floor to drink tea and obtain hot water pre-

paratory to getting up. From eight o'clock the

rings gradually decrease, until at about eight-

fifteen they are as rare as they were at seven-

fifteen. The great collective desire has beenappeased. The unanimity of this population

brought together by chance is most remarkable.

It is also, somehow, very funny. It makes melaugh to myself as I lie reading. The pheno-menon of the increasing and decreasing frequency

of the rings occurs with astonishing sameness

morning after morning. It makes a rather

striking illustration of the instinct of humanbeings to conform, to coalesce into an ordered

community, and of the mighty force of public

opinion.

The mentality of some Continental hotel

servants is very queer. When one has grasped

it one understands why hotel servants are hotel

servants and why they are not revolutionaries.

Every morning the servant attached to my room143


answers my ring promptly. He puts his headinside my door and murmurs some phrase of

which I do not comprehend the componentwords but which I know signifies :

" What does

the gentleman want ?" Every morning I reply

in a language of which I have acquired only

about four phrases, that I want hot water and a

cup of tea. Every morning the servant's face

expresses a mild, polite surprise at such a curious

demand. Every morning as the servant plants

the tea on a chair by my bed—and not before

—

he says to me suddenly, in the manner of anexplosion, and in English, " Good morning,

sir." He is a gloomy and patient man, with a

fatigued smile. Strange that he should get upearlier than I do ! Strange that he should get

up without tea ! Strange that his life's workshould consist in keeping me and such as me in

ease and idleness ! (Off and on I have lived in

pleasure hotels for years, but I have never grownused to this strangeness ; and I never shall.)

The man may not be a fool ; but he is a simpleton.

Breakfasts in pleasure hotels are trying affairs.

Sensitive people avoid them by,>^ breakfasting

in their own rooms, unless, like me, they are

driven downstairs by an insatiable desire to watch

human nature. At these breakfasts human nature

rasps you. What it wants to eat, how it asks

for what it wants, how it eats what it wants, its

mean ingenuity in extracting from the hotel

more than the hotel wants to give it for a fixed

payment,—all these and many other mani-

144

HOTEL MORNINGS

festations of the functioning of early-morning

human nature rasp on the raw sensibiUties of the

sensitive. For instance, an old lady comes down.She is dingily dressed in black. She is ugly.

She has the complexion of a cabman. She is

morose. She is offensive. She is exacting. She

is the negative of charm. She wants bacon and

eggs. The Englishness of asking for bacon and

eggs in a Continental hotel is odious to me ; it

is disgusting. Not merely does she want bacon

and eggs, but she wants them very quickly. Shecontinually harries the pale head-waiter, who is

wearing his worst dress-suit and dirty linen ; but

happily the raging rollers of her desire for baconand eggs break quite harmlessly on the rocky

smoothness of the head-waiter's imperturbable

polished demeanour. ... I see the bacon andeggs coming ; and at the same moment I see

an old gentleman coming. The old gentleman

sits down at the same table as the old lady. Says

she, as the head-waiter deposits the dish :" I've

had some difficulty in getting your bacon andeggs, and I was very much afraid you'd have to

wait. However !" " Thank you, darHng,"

says the old gentleman. She did not want the

bacon and eggs for herself ; she wanted themfor him ! She is the old gentleman's darHng.

He does not behold her with the same eyes as I

behold her. He does not observe that she has

the complexion of a cabman. I estimate that

they may have forty or fifty years of married life

to look back upon. They are thoroughly accus-

tomed to one another. They talk together like

K 145

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEvery old friends. My sensibilities have beenrasped, but now they are smoothed ; and I haveto admit that hotel breakfasts sometimes offer

marvellous compensations. The aged couple

begin to chat with neighbouring tables. Theirsuperficial uncouthness disappears. I learn that

they have travelled much, and seen many works

of art worth seeing, and that they can differ-

entiate between schools of painting, and that the

lady, at any Tate, can talk fluent Italian. Yetthey don't in the least look like connoisseurs.

They look like nothing at all but British winterers-

abroad. Astounding, is it not, that so muchcommerce with beauty should not have prevented

them from achieving such a damnable personal

ugliness ? Presently the old man turns to me,and says, with the delicatest suggestion of humourin his blinking eyes :

" Can you tell us whetherit is Saturday or Sunday to-day ? We werediscussing the point upstairs, and couldn't decide

it."

146

ENGLISH SOCIETY INTHE NINETIES

I HAVE been reading Wilfred Scawen Blunt's

Diaries. The proof-correcting of them is not

impeccable ; but perhaps the occasional negligent

composition, and the mistakes in proper namesand in French, are to be excused in so old andsick a man. One of his characteristics is the

way in which he takes for granted all the para-

phernalia of service and apparatus necessary to

the luxurious existence of such a person as him-self. Thus in a considerable record of a long

driving tour in a coach and four there is almost

nothing to show that he did not groom and feed

and harness and unharness the horses, and washand grease the coach, without any menial aid.

The descriptions of life in and on the edge of the

African desert are delightful and very ably done.

But the most interesting parts of the first volumeare the entries about London Society at the

close of the nineteenth century, and especially

of the group known as the Souls. He is continu-

ally insisting upon the extreme intelligence andthe high education of this group. They certainly

were clever—apparently they could write brilliant

poems between two sets of lawn tennis ; they

were highly diverting conversationalists, andtheir heads must have held a tremendous massof facts. But, with every advantage, what did

they amount to, after all ? What was their

achievement ? They were more remarkable for

self-indulgence and caprice and irregular hours

H7

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEthan for any sort of steady endeavour. Theireducation taught them neither discipHne nor

tenacity of purpose nor the art of life. Theyhad not the supreme intelHgence, for the supremeintelligence consists in an understanding of the

value of deportment. They were in the public

eye, and the most famous of them, particularly

the women, simply did not know how to behave

—and to this day do not know how to behave.

They had not even the wit to keep their photo-

graphs out of the illustrated papers. Theydeveloped a mania for self-advertisement. Andnotoriety became as necessary to them as wine,

cards, and constant change. For the most part

they have done nothing except corrupt society

and render it ridiculous. As regards the fulfil-

ment of ambitions Lord Rosebery is the typical

example of them. Lord Rosebery displayed the

limits of his intelligence when, emerging from a

svbaritism founded on the wealth of the Roths-

childs, he declared that it was good for a poet

to starve. The one man among them who has

realised himself and maintained a massive public

dignity in the face of terrible handicaps (which it

is needless to specify) is precisely the man whomBlunt in these earlier years refers to with con-

descending toleration : H. H. Asquith. Thefavoured group and its descendants have nowbecome the pawns of millionaires who treat themwith a mixture containing 5 per cent, of flattery

and 95 per cent, of breezy disdain.

148

CERTAIN PROFITEERSA PUBLISHER told me the other day that he

had been offered some " disgusting " paper—such

paper as before the war he would not have given

ijd. a lb. for—at is. 4|d. a lb. as a special favour.

Scarcely a fortnight ago buyers were raising

their hands at a price of is. a lb. The next

situation to be acute will be the paper situation.

Papermakers are prospering as gorgeously as

salt-unions. They do not conceal it. But can

the innocent things be blamed ? They cannot.

Paper-buyers surround them as courtiers surround

thrones, and simply force high prices upon them.The same excuse cannot be made for the fashion-

able-restaurant profiteers. Lunchers and diners

do not bid against each other in our vast, gilded,

orchestral eating-houses. The prices at chic

restaurants have not greatly advanced, but the

quantity of food supplied has greatly diminished.

The scandal is not that one cannot get certain

foods—nobody expects them—but that thq" portions " of the food one can get are so

impudently small. And from the firm attitude

of the waiters one may divine that they havereceived definite instructions to distribute the

very tiniest quantities which the eater will accept

without physical protest. Nowadays I rarely

go into a chic restaurant, but I am inclined to

describe my few recent experiences therein as

experiences of being swindled. People continue

to permit themselves to be swindled, because the

habit of being seen in these restaurants satisfies

149


something in their spiritual natures. Theirfeelings in chic restaurants might be described

by slightly modifying Dr. Johnson's description

of his feelings on the Paris boulevards :" Sat

in the chic restaurant awhile. Ate nothing in

particular, but was glad to be there." There are

restaurants which, in addition to withholding

the exquisite torture of bad music, give twice

the quantity of food, rather better cooked, at

about half the price of the chic restaurants.

These restaurants I frequent, but if any reader

imagines that I am going to disclose their namesand addresses he is immensely mistaken. I have

spoilt too many good, cheap restaurants in mytime by disclosing their names and addresses.

Speaking of profiteers reminds me that the

existence of this genus—I have no wish to brand

the whole genus with evil epithets—will probably

do more than anything else to bring about the

conscription of a certain amount of wealth whenthe post-war budgets come to be tackled. Thereare arguments for and against the conscription

of wealth, but the sentimental argument in its

favour will assuredly carry it. The war has

divided the nation into two parts. The larger

part has lived in safety, in comparative freedom,

in comparative luxury ; and a very considerable

number of individuals in it will be monetarily

richer at the end of the war than they were at the

beginning. The smaller part—such portion of

it as survives—^has abandoned its civil position

and prospects, has risked life and limb and

150

CERTAIN PROFITEERS

health, has suffered terribly, has exchangedliberty for a harsh discipline, and has received

at the best a miserably inadequate wage—a wagethat scarcely anybody of corresponding status

in the larger part would look at. Visitors to the

front are well aware that this smaller part has

exceedingly keen convictions as to the propriety

of the conscription of wealth, together with a

general desire for the blood of profiteers. Homi-cidal intentions may wither, but the intention

to see that some wealth is conscripted will un-questionably not wither. And the philanthropic

performances of wealth will not save wealth.

In a new exhibition of war-pictures by Mr.Nevinson (who is a wit as well as an artist) is a

fanciful portrait of a repellent type, thus labelled :

" He made a fortune and gave a sum."

1 6 March 191 8.

151

BRAINS AND EATINGBrain-workers expected no favours from

Lord Rhondda ; but they did not expect to

be insulted. Says Lord Rhondda :" Scientific

opinion is unanimous to the effect that a mandoes not need any more food because he works

with his brain than he would need if he werenot working." I should like Lord Rhondda to

produce his authorities. I have little scientific

knowledge of the mysteries of the humanorganism in being, but I have a very considerable

empiric knowledge of the functioning of my ownbody. I assert that I can sit down fresh to myparticular sort of brain-work, and at the end of

three hours' concentration upon it I can be so

utterly exhausted that further efficient work is

impossible till the next day. I am prepared to

believe that the exhaustion has a toxic origin,

and that physical exercise will appreciably miti-

gate it ; but, on the other hand, I should not

have the volitional energy to take physical

exercise in these circumstances until I hadreceived nourishment, which nourishment I

should certainly not have required had I remainedidle or merely written letters or bright articles 'or

memoranda for committees. My experience is

that I need more food for a day's brain-work thanfor a day of activity in the open sail; that brain-

work induces hunger, and that if this hungeris not satisfied neuralgia ensues. And I knowthat my experience is quite a common one. Asone truly humble and anxious to learn, I beg to

152

BRAINS AND EATING

ask those who know more about me than I domyself the following questions : Does continuous

and severe cerebration destroy tissue ? If it

does not, why am I hungry after working in a

chair and not hungry after reading a novel in a

chair ? If it does not destroy tissue, what does

it do ? If it does destroy tissue, what becomesof Lord Rhondda's dictum ?

' 23 March 191 8.

153

A TRANSATLANTIC VIEWThe wife of an American official, staggered

and delighted at the spectacle of a very great

munitions factory in Britain :" I can just feel

the monarchical principle pulsating through all

this effort."

30 March 191 8.

154

AFTER THE MARCH OFFENSIVELast Tuesday afternoon amounted to a " great

occasion " in the House of Commons. Mr.Lloyd George's speech was a most ordinary-

performance. It is a pity that so few people

have the faculty of being amazed at the ordinary.

The Prime Minister went through the ceremonyof what is known as " reviewing the situation."

All the information which he imparted to the

House during the first fifty minutes of his speech

was told in about thirty seconds, and it had only

a trifling importance. The rest was a hash-upof what everybody knows, done really very badly

indeed ; and on the military side it had the sole

effect of making the German achievement seemmore miraculous even than we had thought it.

Seventy minutes had passed before Mr. LloydGeorge arrived at his proper theme. He spoke

for a hundred and seventeen minutes, in whichperiod he was detected only once in the use of anargument. When he referred to the valour of

the British Army he was cheered. When hesaid that conscription in Ireland was simply

justice to England he got a long-sustained cheer

from the Conservative benches. And when heuttered any easily comprehended sentimental

truism he got the tiny cheer which any speaker

can get at any public meeting for such things.

But after a horribly creaking peroration he sat

down practically in silence. The show wasincompetent. Worse, it was forced, meretricious,

and noisy. One felt constantly while Mr. Lloyd

155


George thumped the brass-bound dispatch-box

and looked histrionically round the Housechallenging Members to deny his impassioned

assertion that two and two make four—one felt

that the dispatch-box ought to have been a tub.

One felt that if this kind of stunt has to be donein order to placate the traditions of the House,

Mr. Horatio Bottomley could do it far better

than Mr. Lloyd George. The spectacle was

humiliating, the waste of time shocking. Mr.Asquith showed the difference between genuine

Parliamentarianism and the other thing, and Mr.

Joe Devlin dramatically showed the difference

between genuine oratory and the other thing.

13 Afril 191 8.

156

THE ROYAL ACADEMY AGAINThe Private View of the Royal Academy was

somewhat less crowded than usual. There were

far more horses (well fed) in the quadrangle

during the afternoon, and far fewer automobiles

than for many years past. Still, there were a

few automobiles (other than electric) using petrol

or gas for purposes for which it is illegal to use

petrol or gas ; but the policemen round about

showed no sign of any intention to issue summonses.

Within, there was a notable paucity of khaki,

and the English ruling class, though very pre-

valent, seemed somehow less domineering andoffensive than aforetime. The chief character-

istic of the Exhibition was the absence, not merely

of portraits by the fashionable performers, but

of any portraits whatever of certain prominent

youngish and middle-aged women, without

portraits of whom no exhibition has hitherto been

considered respectable. The supreme positive

achievement of the show is Mr. Frank Salisbury's.

Who could believe that he would surpass his

rendering of the heroism of Jack Cornwall ?

Yet he has done so. His group of the King, the

Prince of Wales, and Sir Douglas Haig, with their

satellites, is simply and totally amazing ; and the

footnote which,;^

represents the Queen and somenurses is as amazing as the main subject. In

front of these canvases you have to pinch yourself

in order to be sure that you have not fallen into

a tranced vision. Mr. Salisbury undoubtedly

ought to be president of the R.A., for no one

157


has defied time and the evolutionary process so

perfectly as he has. The picture of the year will

be Mr. Walter Bayes' life-size version of the

alien-haunted Tube during a raid. It is not a

bad picture, but it will be overpraised for the

realism of the woman in the ill-fitting stays.

The R.A. has no objection to the nude, but I

question whether it ever admitted ill-fitting

stays to its walls before. Those interested in

graphic art will discover relief in distinguished

productions by D. Y. Cameron and GeorgeClausen. The picture by Anning Bell, boughtby the Chantrey Trustees, is the best AnningBell I ever saw. Still, it leaves one entirely

indifferent. I hear that a determined effort was

made to get the Trustees to buy pictures byWilson Steer and William Nicholson. It failed.

The R.A. probably has an inkling that there is

3l war on, but thinks it is the Boer War.

II May 1918.

158

J. G. BENNETTThe most curious thing in the notices of James

Gordon Bennett is the statement that he was in

bed when Stanley called on him in the early-

morning in Paris to arrange the Livingstone

expedition. In Paris Bennett rose at terrible

hours, such as 4 a.m. I have known resentful

employees of his who have had appointments

with him in what they held to be the middle of

the night. On the other hand he reckoned to

have finished his day's work at 9 a.m. Even in

old age he was a fellow of astounding energy.

Unfortunately much of the interesting part of

his biography could not be printed withoutoffending Anglo-Saxon public opinion. He knewhow to spend money and how to waste it. Thelast and greatest of his yachts, the Lysistrata, waspossibly not equal in grandeur to some modernrivals, like the incomparable lolanda, or the

Nahma, but she was a startling vessel. I rememberonce, on the Riviera, off which coast the Lysistrata

often " hung," a well-known Clyde shipbuilder

telling me that he had just had an order to

duplicate certain fittings for the yacht. He said :

" They were of solid gold." And in this wayJames Gordon Bennett " went on."

18 May 191 8.

159

PORTUGUESE STREETSSome streets in Portuguese towns and villages

have agreeable peculiarities. For example, the

numbering often, if not generally, includes the

ground-floor windows as well as the door. Thusquite a small house may well occupy three

numbers in the series. And there is no modestyor underhandedness or sparing of expense in the

business ; every number is carefully painted over

door or window in large characters. What wasthe object of this method of numeration I never

became sufficiently intimate with any municipal

authorities to learn. Indeed, I was never

sufficiently anxious to learn, being content to

enjoy the mere fact. Not satisfied with carrying

the numeration of houses further than somepeople, the Portuguese have also carried the

nomenclature of streets further. If a street is

called after a regiment—and some are—all the

chief victories in which the regiment participated

are set up, with dates, at the ends of the said

streets. (I doubt, however, whether this is goodLeague of Nations propaganda.) I woke one

morning in a suburb of Lisbon, and looking out

of my window beheld the following street sign

on the opposite wall :" Street of the Lusiads.

Poem by Camoens. First edition 1572." Any-body can see sense in this device. The advertise-

ment for fine literature is permanent. Probably

very few people dwelling in the street will be

tempted by the sign and the information to get

hold of Camoens and study him ; but somebody160

PORTUGUESE STREETS

might be tempted ; indeed a certain type of

person might deem it a social duty, the perform-

ance of which was necessary to his self-respect,

to read the works of a classical writer in whosestreet he lived. Anyhow the process of familiarisa-

tion with the symbol of great things is continu-

ous. I have not read the Lusiads myself, in anylanguage ; but I am assured that they make anadmirable bed-book, and that once taken up theycannot easily be put down. I can believe it.

All great epics are full of meat and of juicy side-

dishes if only people will refrain from taking them

j

as seriously as porridge. Paradise Lost is a wholepicnic-menu, and in fragments makes first-rate

light reading.

Other and more grandiose countries mightadvantageously imitate Portugal in this matterof street nomenclature. But they must notshrink from a full achievement. " Lusiads

Street " would have no effect. Ninety-nine per

cent, of the inhabitants of a Lusiads Street wouldlive and die without troubling to guess whatLusiads were. But inhabitants of the " Street

of the Lusiads. Poem by Camoens. First

edition 1572," unless they happen to be blind,

are forced to absorb the most important fact

of their national literary history. I can imaginethe tremendous effect in New York of an " Avenueof the Tales of Mystery and Imagination. ByEdgar Allen Poe. First edition 1845." It

would turn New York into a city of dreams

—

and would also produce a strike of clerks and a

I. 161


ukase of the Postal Administration forbidding

the admixture of letters with letters. Butnobody need be afraid. It is only very youngand ingenuous republics who go in for this kind

of thing.

162

SACCHARINEThe world is full of marvels. You go regularly

into your favourite chemist's, in order to mitigate

by means of drugs the effects of too much devo-tion to your country, and bottles of saccharine

always lie. on the counter in front of you in heaps,

inviting you to buy. You do buy, but onlyoccasionally, because one phial of saccharine

goes a long way, and there are heaps of them in

the marvellous world. Then one day you notice

that saccharine has disappeared from the counter.

You happen to want some. The chemist,

though he is your favourite chemist and knowsyour weaknesses and talks poHtics with you,

immediately puts on a perfectly blank smile

and says that he has no more saccharine andcan't get any. No use ingeniously cross-examin-

ing him ! He is determined that his ignorance

shall be perfect. He doesn't know the cause

of the mysterious disappearance of saccharine.

He doesn't know when he will be able to get a

fresh supply. He hasn't the slightest idea aboutanything at all. He exists apparently quite

content amid the most disconcerting enigmas.

You remember having seen in the newspaperthat the Food Controller had some sort of a

notion of controlling saccharine at some future

time. But you cannot bring yourself to suggest

to the chemist that herein lies the explanation

of the mysterious disappearance of saccharine.

The chemist's resolve to be an honest simpleton

163


ties your tongue. And you go from shop to

shop. No saccharine anywhere. Not even at

the club. Saccharine has vanished like gold in a

revolution.

i8 May 1918.

1:64

THE JOCKEY CLUBOne institution at any rate has not been

" controlled " in the war—namely, the Jockey

Club. The Jockey Club, instead of being con-

trolled, '

is " requested." Its representatives

seem to meet the representatives of the WarCabinet on equal terms. The Government,according to an announcement apparently

official, " requested the Jockey Club to co-operate

with them in carrying into effect " the limitation

of racing rendered necessary by the stress of war.

Whereupon the Jockey Club duly met and unani-

mously agreed that " such a request comingdirect from the Government should be loyally

complied with," and gave the necessary orders

for cancellation of race meetings. What wouldhave happened if the Jockey Club had " loyally

"

differed from the War Cabinet on the grave

question. Heaven knows ! But we can all guess

what would happen to the Football Association

or the M.C.C. if the War Cabinet wantedanything from such bodies. Their " loyalty

"

would not be appealed to. They would just

receive an order from some department, andthat would be the end of that. The further

curtailment of racing is probably directly due to

the season-ticket holders' dangerous resentment

against race-trains to and from Gatwick. If

season-ticket holders had any sense they wouldall become members of the Jockey Club. It

would then suddenly be discovered that to raise

i6s

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEthe price of seasons would involve the ruin

of the Empire, and the Board of Trade wouldsing a tune quite different from its present

melody.

I 'June 191 8.

166

BALZAC'S TECHNIQUELes Employes and Le Cure de ôurs are

among the works of Balzac that I like best.

They are half-novels. But the beginning of

Les Eni'ployes is terrible. Balzac takes over forty

pages to lay down his principal personages,

Rabourdin and des Lupeaulx. The latter is a

complete " character " (in the old meaning), and

the description of him might be made into a

complete Balzacian work. The former is almost

complete, but there is tacked on to the descrip-

tion of him a full account of his scheme for

re-organising the Civil Service. You feel here

that Balzac did not know what he was talking

about. The account is full of facile generalities

that would not stand serious criticism, and also

it is involved and heavy. In short, ill done;

dull. Nevertheless, when you have got through

the forty odd pages, you have a reward in your

own feelings. You do feel now that the groundplan is well and truly laid, and the trouble

which Balzac has made you take ensures your

interest for the future and makes it genuine.

Especially as the thing does get slightly moreinteresting in itself towards the end of the forty

odd pages. There are sentences about des

Lupeaulx and company ; for example :" Leur

constante habitude de toujours faire un mouvement

de tete affirmatif four approuver ce qui se dit, ou

pour sên donner Pair, communiqua quelque chose

dêtrange a leur tete. Leur langage jut plein de

maisy de cependant, de nSanmoiru, de moi, je

167


ferais, moi, a voire -place {Us disaient souvent a

voire place), toutes phrases qui prSparent la con-

tradiction "(p. 41). ... In fine, having arrived

at Madame Rabourdin's campaign to capture des

Lupeaulx, you await with joy the sequel.

Note the falsification characteristic of Balzac in

exaggerating the charm and beauty of Rabourdin's

home. He invents circumstances to account for

it, but the invention is not convincing. You can

see the impulse to idealise getting stronger in

him. In a moment Madame Rabourdin is one

of the seven or eight really superior women of

Paris. And he gives her for a friend MadameFirmiani {nie Cadignan) ! At the ministerial

reception there is little surcease from character

description (pp. 45-47), and one thinks that the

intrigue is really beginning, when the Saillard

Baudoyer lot is introduced. The ensuing descrip-

tiveness occupies over twenty pages (pp. 47-68).

At Madame Rabourdin's the intrigue makes

a fresh start, for des Lupeaulx is now casting

on Madame Rabourdin the eye of love ; but

unfortunately M. Rabourdin happens to be

talking to a " supernumerary " in the Civil

Service, and hence (at p. 71) there is a dose

of descriptiveness round about supernumeraries

in general and young Sebastien de la Roche

in particular (pp. 71-76). Then MadameRabourdin begins her battle with des Lupeaulx,

and the intrigue moves once more. But (on

p. 81) Madame Rabourdin having gone to bed,

Balzac curves away to the subject of the denizens

168

BALZAC'S TECHNIQUE

of the Civil Service bureaux. He describes the

offices (pp. 82-85), ^^^ yields to the temptation

to sketch in greater detail the division of M. de la

Billardiere (who is dying), in fourteen pages

(pp. 85-98). After this comes a little scene

(pp. 98-99) between minor clerks to prepare

for the catastrophe due to de la Roche's care-

lessness about secret documents. Then (at

p. loi) Balzac has the magnificent nerve to say :

" Avant (Tentrer dans le drame, il est riecessaire

de peindre ici la silhouette des 'principaux acteurs

de la division la Billardiere.''^ This painting

occupies thirty-three pages. We are at p. 133.

The story gets a move on.

169

TAILORINGMy tailor, while trying me on, talked about

trousers, and I said that a pair of trousers could

really only be worn once. After that it was nolonger worthy of a dandy. He said that he

had said to G. W. E. Russell that a man ought

to have a pair of trousers for each day in the

week. Russell replied :" I do not agree with

you. I think he ought to have a pair for every-

day in the month, so that he will only wear a

pair at most twelve times in the year." Thetailor asserted, doubtless with some poetical

tailorish exaggeration, that Russell, in order to

be consistent, thereupon ordered " about forty"

pairs of trousers.

170

A FIRST NIGHTThe attendance at a theatrical first night

usually comprises three groups : i . The pro-

fessional first-nighters— critics, agents, ticket-

agents, playwrights, and theatrical advisers.

Most of them are bored by the stage, blase,

weary, indifferent. They seldom or never

applaud. 2. A small intermediate group, parti-

ally overlapping No. i and consisting of profes-

sionals who have some reason to be sympathetic

towards the author, the management, or the

players. This group shows its friendliness by

giving applause which in other circumstances

it would not give. 3. Friends of the author,

the management, or the players, who are not

regular first-nighters. This group is present in

order to applaud, it is determined to applaud,

and if there is no reason to applaud it makes

occasions. Thus on a first night the applause

is both less and more than it is on an ordinary

night. On the whole, the friendliness easily

beats the indifference—but not always.

A first night reception is by no means even a

fairly sure index of what the reception by the

general public will be. Rapturous first nights

have inaugurated short runs, and chilly first

nights have been followed by many months of

enthusiasm. Nevertheless there is one kind of

negative manifestation on a first night which

amounts to an absolutely reliable prophecy of

failure. We had a clear example of this mani-

171


festation on Tuesday evening. The author hadgot hold of a good idea, and he could drawcharacters, and he could make middling to

excellent jokes. But the audience gradually

grew uneasy. It grew uneasy because it did not

know what the author was driving at ; and it

did not know because the author did not know.

The main stream of the story divided itself into

various rivulets, and these rivulets were gradually

lost in the sands of the desert. There were a

dozen stories, but there v/as no story. Above all

there was no sense of direction. The thing was

incoherent in its entirety. No episodical clever-

ness, no qualities of sincerity or wit or passion

will atone for this defect ; and the defect is

fatal. Whereas on the other hand the mere

virtue and attraction of a plain story, moving in a

recognisable curve from somewhere to somewhere,

may atone for all other defects. The uneasiness

induced by a lack of coherence is painful. It

is not perhaps physically evident, save by an

exaggerated eagerness to appreciate points ; it

is secretly felt, and it spreads like poison gas,

unseen and inescapable. All audiences are alike

in their instinctive attitude towards narrative

incoherence. They are not necessarily bored,

though they may be bored ; they are deroute^

which is worse. Everybody knew before the

second act was over that this play must fail. Ofcourse in the foyer no one openly said so, for

in the foyer friends of the management and the

artistes always abound. Only in the second

interval did a middle-aged, benevolent actor,

172

A FIRST NIGHT

taking a busman's holiday, come along and say

sadly to a member of the management :" You

know, I'm not very happy about this play." Thegood man wrought a most painful effect by the

simple act of uttering a sentiment that wasuniversal. The third act picked up ever so

slightly. At the end Group i departed in

grimness. Groups 2 and 3 remembered all the

passable jokes and the ingenious turns of plot,

and called loudly for the author, and a beaminggentleman came forward and stated that the

author positively was not in the house, but that

the favourable verdict of the audience should be

conveyed to him. The author was standing in

the back street and already knew his doom past

any doubt. The next morning all the newspapernotices were the same. Nothing brings aboutunanimity in press criticism like a lack of the

sense of direction.

173

THE INQUISITION ON"SEASONS"

It is curious and interesting that, in the

sensational rebellion of season-ticket holders

and would-be season-ticket holders, the phrase" bomb-dodgers " has begun to lose its popularity.

A month ago, two months ago, it was all the

rage ; and just as once the right-minded used

contumeliously the term " free-thinker," so nowthe right-minded were then holding it to be a

sin to dodge bombs. Apparently the theory wasthat as decent people they ought to stand still for

possible bombs to drop on them, and that there

was something heroic and patriotic in doing this.

Another theory, which still lives, was to the

effect that up-river trains were monopolised bywealthy aliens, who had obtained their riches

by dubious means, who spoke queer English,

and who would be interned if the Home Office

was not full of what Clemenceau calls consciences

pourries. I have never been able to get anyconfirmation of this theory. I was talking to a

friend who comes from Maidenhead Hke a sardine

and returns thither like a sardine every day, andhe assured me that his fellow-sardines are quite

ordinary English Britons, with no trace of the

exotic. This man has gone to live at Maiden-head because of a female relative whose nervous

system has been disturbed by the noise of raids.

He is wondering about the future of his season-

ticket, and whether the judge of the SupremeCourt of Judicature of the Great Western Railway

174

THE INQUISITION ON " SEASONS "

will graciously permit him to continue the sameor not. He is one of the tens of thousands of

the disaffected. Indeed the season-ticket ukase

has exacerbated the season-ticket public, whichnaturally is a public of fixed habits, more deeply-

even than the raising of the military age.

I June 191 8.

175

INTERPRETING THE GOSPELSundry official and semi-official exponents of

Christianity have ventured from time to time

during the war to maintain that the New Testa-

ment injunction to love one's enemies was not

merely an injunction to love one's enemies

unless they happened to be Germans. Theyhave all got into trouble, some of them into

serious trouble. The latest victim is the Arch-

bishop of York, who said something dubious

on Good Friday in New York, and has been

taken to task by the wonderful Lord Denbigh.

The Archbishop does not usually answer attacks

in the Press, but to this excellent rule he has

made an exception in favour of Lord Denbigh.

His reply is infinitely prelatical. He explains

that the occasion being the Good Friday service

he was obliged to base his address on the famous

words : " Father, forgive them, for they knownot what they do." He says :

" I did not choose

the subject, but obviously it could not be

avoided." Obviously ! He then shows that he

was prepared to pray for the heads of the Germanmilitarist party on certain conditions—conditions

which really ought to satisfy Lord Denbigh

—

and he asserts positively that he never did adjure

his New York congregation to " think kindly of

the rulers, soldiers, and peoples of Germany and

Austria." He further says that he didn't con-

demn the German treatment of prisoners of warbecause he hadn't time. In fact, he defends

himself with skill. Nevertheless he made a

176

INTERPRETING THE GOSPEL

mistake in replying to Lord Denbigh. In the

minds of the judicious the resulting situation

is very strange. It would need Mr. LyttonStrachey to deal with it adequately. I haveoften suspected that the Archbishop of York is

an " eminent Victorian " strayed into the wrongcentury.

I June 1918.

M 177

INTERNATIONALI ESCORTED to the dinner a young woman who

had a cold, together with a red nose resulting

therefrom ; but the redness was partly disguised

by powder, and moreover her dress fitted well,

and she was satisfied with it. Among the guests

were a young little Second Empire baron, ugly,

decent, the embryo of an intensely conventional

and respectable Tory, and his wife. They hadbeen married only three years, and had a baby of

two years, and yet that pretty French girl hadexactly the expression of a confirmed British

matron. She had never heard of Count Robertd'Humieres, the translator of Kipling, but thank

Heaven she had heard of Kipling ; had even

read him and thought him " interesting." Also

an Englishwoman and a male friend of hers,

successfully pretending that they had met in

Paris by mere accident. Also a Roman countess,

stoutish, philosophic, who convinced me in

about a quarter of an hour that she was one of

the wisest and shrewdest of women. Also the

fat son of a Russian banker ; he was a philosopher,

professionally ; he spoke English with fluent

badness, infecting the air by reason of a chest

disease from which he suffered. Also a Greekspinster, who told me that she had once been

engaged to an Englishman, but the match wasbroken off because of his weak lungs. She was

agreeable, tolerant, thin, wizened, over-mature,

famished for love ; no grace in her form. Also

a young girl with a strange coiffure, suffering

178

INTERNATIONAL

from the first onset of Christian Science, andin search of a husband with luxury thrown in

;

lamentably unintelligent. Lastly an old poli-

tician—^journalist of the Commune ; tall andbig, gentle, forgiving—with thick, flowing whitehair. During the Commune he had been stood

up against a wall to be shot, but someone in

authority had strolled along and saved him by a

few seconds ; after which he was transported for

ten years to Cayenne or New Caledonia. Hereturned, and became one of the first chroniqueurs

in Paris. An immense cackle uprose of philosophy,

the arts, literature. And through this dizzying

cackle a patient and clever valet and an English

parlourmaid kept their heads, serving very well

a fairish dinner. No surcease in the discussion.

The talkers picked up the universe and shook it

like a rat. Its affairs got definitely settled abouta dozen times, but unsettled themselves instantly

every time. After three hours the perfect

servants insinuated themselves once more withvaried and much-needed drinks. At midnightI removed my lady. The inexhaustible servants

treated us as perfectly helpless. Nice, forbearing,

human creatures they were. " Good-night,"said my lady pleasantly to them, out of the

fullness of her satisfaction with the evening. Theywere too well-trained to reply. But what the

evening was all about I could not conceive, andoutside the universe seemed much as usual.

179

THE SIEGE OF PARISThe Leberts, old husband and wife, were in

the little room boarded off from their kitchen.

There was just space for us three and the

cat. A fire burned in the corner. Monsieur,

with his cap on, glanced mechanically at a

newspaper. Madame was half seated on the

corner of something not a chair. I asked themfor details of the siege of Paris. It seemed to

have left no particular mark on their minds.

They were more interested in an accident that

had happened to them just before the siege andin their great store of potatoes. They hadthree children, and the children had gone to

school as usual throughout the siege. At first

they were allowed a quarter of a pound of meatper day per person, but later only two ounces

;

and one pound of bread. Then came black

bread, made of horse-chestnuts and barley. For

about a fortnight this bread was uneatable, anddestroyed the stomach unless it was first cooked

over a fire. As a railway employee Lebert was

requisitioned for ambulance work when necessary.

But he was also in the National Guard, receiving

for that a franc and a half a day. There was

drill every day, and every day the different

companies of the National Guard marchedthrough Paris with their bands. No one worked.

It was very cold. Rice was specially com-mandeered for the soldiers. When a horse fell

the men leaped on it, cut it up, and carried off

the pieces. Lebert was convinced that towards

1 80

THE SIEGE OF PARIS

the end the Government played tricks with

the food supply, so as to induce the people to

acquiesce in the capitulation. Crudely, the

Government destroyed food on purpose—accord-

ing to him.

On the announcement of the capitulation the

National Guard (200,000 of them) had a lot to

say (faisait des f otitis), and the Government was

accused of treachery. When the Germans entered

the Champs Elysees, only Bonapartists andRoyalists (among Frenchmen) were there. All

RepubHcans absented themselves. The cafes

were closed. One cafe remained open, and the

mob afterwards sacked it. The Prussians were

confined to the Champs Elysees, the Cours la

Reine, and the Place de la Concorde. Those of

them who tried to break bounds {Jorcer la con-

signe) were roughly handled, and one was killed.

The Leberts were still full of pride in this

ostracisation of the Prussians by the Parisians.

Otherwise they appeared only to attach import-

ance to the siege because I attached importance

to it. They behaved like the inhabitants of

a picturesque historic town or curious village

in the presence of an interested tourist. Their

life had gone pretty calmly on throughout the

siege. During the Commune they resided in a

cellar for a fortnight. They repeated calmly :

" Yes, we slept in the cellar and kept the shutters

closed for a fortnight because there were always

sharpshooters in the streets." And Lebert madean elemental joke about sleeping with his sister-

181


in-law in the cellar. A baker lived next door,

and they ordered their bread over the wall.

When, for some reason which I have forgotten,

they could not order bread over the wall, they

called out to passers-by to order bread for them.

182

MADSEN GUN RUMOURSAfter nearly four years of war and nearly

three years of air-raids, it has suddenly occurred

to the authorities to protect from bombs the

only decent outdoor statue in London, that of

Charles i. There is some chance of the pro-

tective work being finished, or nearly finished,

before the next air-raid. Thus is the irresistible

force of sound ideas demonstrated. Sound ideas

do in the end "get there." I notice that evenmusical comedies are opening their unwilling

doors to ideas. The legitimate stage is usually

ten years behind events, and the illegitimate

stage usually twenty years behind. But to-day

may be seen a musical comedy devoted wholly

and solely to flying. George Edwardes wouldnever have tolerated it. Similarly, Sir AucklandGeddes has just accepted and fathered a mostingenious idea for introducing the reality of

industrial conscription without the appearance.

It will result in a notable increase of Sir Auckland's

popularity. Similarly, the War Office has set its

door ajar—not fully open yet—to Mr. H. A.

Barker's ideas about manipulative surgery. Manywell-informed and simple-minded people will

regard this last as the most wonderful thing that

ever happened at the War Office. But it is not.

The most wonderful thing that ever happenedat the War Office is the affair of the Madsengun. The Madsen gun is admitted by every-

183


body, including the War Office experts, to be

the best machine-gun in existence. Most persons

whose opinion is of value think that no other

machine-gun can compare with it. Lord Frenchasked for Madsen guns over three years ago. Hedidn't get them. But he nearly got them. Mr.Lloyd George ordered 5000 of them. Thenthe War Office " intimated " that it didn't wantMadsen guns, and a factory which was specially

erected and equipped to execute Mr. LloydGeorge's order was " diverted " to the manu-facture of Rolls-Royce engines. Even to-day,

though the unique value of the Madsen gun is

the theme of every martial lip, the Army Council

is " not in favour of a change," and G.H.Q.thinks that the disadvantages of adopting the

new type outweigh the advantages. Adminis-trative difficulties lie in the path, and also the

War Office is worried about manufacturing

difficulties—though surely these concern the

Ministry of Munitions rather than the WarOffice. Nevertheless—and herein is the wonder—the Madsen gun is coming. Yes, it really is

coming, thanks largely to the insistence of LordBeresford. The War Office people have an-

nounced that " further consideration of the

whole matter leads them to hope that a way out

. . . may yet be found." The War Office is

actually " anxious to find a solution of the

difficulties." It may be taken that in duecourse, either during or after the war, the

Madsen gun—the greatest casualty-saving weaponin the history of war—will exist in considerable

184

MADSEN GUN RUMOURS

quantities. Lord Beresford gave the opinion

in his speech in the House of Lords on the 6th

instant that two battaHons armed with Madsenguns would hold three divisions on a limited

front.

15 June 191 8.

185

FATIGUEI SCARCELY felt tired in the morning. The

day before might have been just an ordinary day.

Only I had a queer " full " feeling in the head.

And I was irritable and gloomy. I searched

for the cause of my gloom, and there was nocause. Moreover I had no real desire to conquer

my gloom. Its cause must have been physical.

After lunch I was profoundly aware of my fatigue.

I slept an hour. I could have slept longer, but

I got up. With satisfaction I felt that / had

had a sleep. Then tea and a cigar. I meant to

work, but I perceived that I was too tired to

work ; my head was too " full." I lay downagain and read, and slept three-quarters of an

hour. It was at this point, when the fatigue

was nearly but not quite dissipated, as I lay onthe bed, that I began to have fine sensations.

A perception that my gloom was passing ; whata wonderful thing life was ; an intensified con-

sciousness of myself as an existing organism.

Still, there remained a slight " fullness " of the

head ; a pressure at two points right and left of

the crown. Withal a kind of enjoyment of these

remains of fatigue, knowing that they wouldsoon be gone. And a physical pleasure in the

half-fatigued realisation of my being ; a looking-

forward to the next activity ; a calm resting.

All this passed off when I arose, but not the

memory of it. I finally went to bed with an

1 86

FATIGUE

ardent appetite for sleep;

yet not quite so

ardent as I had anticipated. It was the inter-

mediate period that was the most agreeable.

However, the whole experience was somehowvoluptuous.

187

THE RAILWAY GUIDELate at night in the hotel lounge I heard a

man asking the page what " a.b." meant in the

ABC Railway Guide. As the page didn't

know, I explained that the train so marked carried

only 1st and 2nd class—no 3rd class. Theman said : ^" Oh ! Thanks. I had an idea it

was that. It doesn't make any difference to

me, however, as it happens I always travel

second."

188

PAVLOVA AT THE PALACEShe danced the dying swan. (It was a pity,

after the Russian Ballet, to see her in front of

such ugly scenery.) A feather fell from her

costume.

One man said to another :

" Moulting."

Such was the whole of their conversation.

It is this kind of thing that infuriates meagainst audiences, and against English audiences

in particular. It annoys me more than the

laughter, half-hysterical, half-loutish, which evenin West End theatres seldom fails to punctuate

a poignant moment in a play. Edmond de

Goncourt got the measure of the ridiculous

monosyllabic Englishman in his curious novel

La Faustin. An English lord goes to look over

an empty house. When he sees a bird in a cage

he ejaculates :" Bird." And when he sees the

bath he ejaculates :" Bath." And during the

entire visit he says nothing else whatever.

189

ECHO DE PARISLord Grey's pamphlet about a League of

Nations has not had a strikingly favourable

reception in France ; but there was at least one

sound article upon it in the Socialist Press. I

imagine that Lord Northcliffe is a much morepopular man in French Fleet Street than LordGrey, and his tips are apt to be accepted there.

The Daily Mail began by boycotting the

pamphlet, just as it began by boycotting the

Asquith luncheon at the Aldwych Club ; in

both cases the boycott broke down, and the

failure was demonstrated in the usual manner

—

that is to say, by ill-temper. Perhaps the worst

article on Lord Grey's pamphlet appeared in

the Echo de Paris on Friday of last week. It was

written by M. Geraud, known to the French

militarist and reactionary world as " Pertinax."

On this occasion " Impertinax " would have

been a more suitable pseudonym. M. Geraudtreated a League of Nations as the idle dream of

a " country gentleman." The country-gentle-

manliness of Lord Grey was insisted upon.

Indeed, it occupied the better part of a column,

and was embellished with guaranteed and utterly

false anecdotes, such as the anecdote that LordGrey once, at a moment of crisis, broke an im-

portant appointment with statesmen and diplo-

matists because the fancy suddenly took him to go

hunting. I need say no more about this article

than that it certainly ought never to have

appeared. I sent my copy of the Echo containing

190

ECHO DE PARIS

it to a friend. The copy was a whole copy, as

sold in Paris, and not the edition without adver-

tisements which, under the new miHtary law,

now has to be produced for foreign circulation.

Wishing to read the article again, I got a copy of

the foreign edition of the same issue. Sure

enough, there was an article by " Pertinax " in it

;

but not the same article, quite a different article

on quite a different subject. The Grey article

had entirely disappeared. Thus were " Per-

tinax's " notions about Lord Grey and about

Lord Grey's pamphlet judiciously confined to the

French public. Which is instructive.

29 June 191 8.

191

A CANADIAN BANQUETThe Canadian journalists now in Europe are

a very bright and variegated lot. They have

come prepared to learn, and they are learning

—

also admiring. When I met them a young manfrom Quebec who preferred to talk in French

rather than in English invited me to tell himthe whole truth about all our principal politicians.

I judiciously refrained. Another gentleman

from London (Ontario), who had not been here

before, handsomely admitted that our London" had it " over his. He went further, andasserted that London (England) was much moreof a " place " than even New York. Thevisitors were really immensely impressed by Mr.Lloyd George's oration at the private dinner

given in the banqueting cave of the Savoy Hotel

on Friday of last week. And indeed I have

never heard the Prime Minister suit his audience

better. The speech, by the way, was imperfectly

reported. The reply to it |was given by Mr.Woods. When I asked who was Mr. Woods, I

was told that he was " a prairie man." He is

the editor of the Calgary Herald, and the most

popular person in the delegation. His speech

was " the least as is " long, but it was an admir-

able speech delivered with a great deal of charm.

When Sir Robert Borden bayed his voice across

the enormous cave, you might have thought

that nobody could maintain the role of the

British bull-dog better than he. General

Turner, however, maintained it better. The192

A CANADIAN BANQUET

restrained vigour of his tenacity was simply-

terrific. General Turner had far more letters

after his name than any other speaker, and youfelt that he must have deserved them all. Heshowed a demeanour fit to strike Hindenburgwith apoplexy.

20 July 1918.

N 193

SLUMP IN PESSIMISMThe last fortnight has been on the whole a

very trying time for confirmed pessimists, of

whom I know several rather advanced specimens.

Pessimism, when you get used to it, is just as

agreeable as optimism. Indeed, I think it mustbe more agreeable, must have a more rare savour,

than optimism—from the way in which pessimists

abandon themselves to it. " Look !" said a

friend of mine to me once, of another friend

who was a passionate pessimist. " Look ! Hereis Blank coming in, terrified lest there maybe some good news." And so it was. Manypessimists seem to be now cured. At first they

hated the feeling of hope. But they have grownused to it, and are beginning not positively to

dislike it. The LudendorfT stock is down in

Britain, and even Prussian prestige, always, upto the present, curiously high in the share-lists

of those who prefer peace to anything, has

started to sag heavily.

27 July 191 8.

194

SHORT STORIESWhen the short stories of Tchekoff began to

appear in English, we wondered whether Russia

had not produced a greater than de Maupassantin this line. Of course we could not depose deMaupassant all at once, but I think that little

by little we did do so. Tchekoff is more com-prehensive than de Maupassant ; his interests

and his sympathies are wider ; he certainly

observes more ; he was a far more generally

interesting personality. True, his artistic educa-tion was not equal to de Maupassant's ; he wasless exclusively and severely an artist ; and hewrote a sad quantity of mediocre stuff. But themass of his first-rate stuff is large ; and whenyou come to tales like ^he Ravine, The Moujiks,

and Afhrodite, you are aware that nothing couldbe better

;you say that de |Maupassant never

produced anything quite so full and completeas these. After some years of Tchekoff I tookup with de Maupassant again. Well, I doubtwhether after all Tchekoff " has it over him."Although admittedly de Maupassant is a bit of

a monomaniac and admittedly Tchekoff is not

;

although Tchekoff's work is more complete

—

still in the emotional power of rendering a givensituation de Maupassant is perhaps somewhatthe superior of the other ; assuredly he is nothis inferior. And does anything else finally

count ? In sheer creative force is either Jphroditeor The Ravine equal to such a tale as UlnutileBeaute ? Ulnutile Beaute was the first story

195


of de Maupassant's I ever read ; on its wings I

crossed the Channel and was transformed froman islander into an awakened and excited citizen

of the world ; conceivably I have a weakness for

Ulnutile Beaute. Yet even after allowing for

the favourable prejudice I am bound to put this

story at least as high as the very best of Tchekoff.

The situations in it are most drastically simplified,

and is that a fault ? Is it not, rather, a virtue ?

And the handling of the thus simplified situa-

tions never falters in its austere and tremendouspower. Whatever Tchekoffwas hewas not austere.

As for de Maupassant, he steadily cultivated

simplification. Boule de Suif, the story bywhich he is chiefly known, is not simplified.

It is a youthful attempt to be complex andcomplete. It succeeds. It is a great story, but

it is a little self-conscious, " arty," and over-

careful. Ulnutile Beaute, like Le Champd* Oliviers and La Maison Tellier, shows a supremeease and assurance—a perfection of masterful

technique and of economy that Tchekoff did

not in my opinion achieve. The mention of LeChamp d* Oliviers reminds me that de Maupassant

was very economical in the use of his themes.

He treated the theme of this story at least twice

elsewhere—in Duchoux and Unfils ; he treated it

tragically in the first story, with grim comedyin the second, and harrowingly in the third.

Let us all thank God that there is no " best

short story." When you have nicely balanced

Tchekoff against de Maupassant for the champion-

196

SHORT STORIES

ship, ' you suddenly think of Tolstoi and TheDeath of Ivan Ilyitch, than which no story can

be better. I am not sure that any short stories

in English can qualify for the championship.

Thirty years ago Walter Scott's WanderingWillie's Tale was always cited as the best. Thenit was Stevenson's Thrawn Janet. Then Kipling

took the floor. And to-day Conrad and Hardyhave ousted their forerunners in vogue. Andneither of them writes short stories any more.

So far as I know, short stories with serious

pretensions to greatness are not being written

now, either in France, Russia, or England. Andif they are not being written in France, Russia,

or England, they are not being written anywhere.

197

BYRON ON THE STAGEThe weird and even terrible spectacle offered

by the Stage Society at Drury Lane Theatre,

in the alleged shape of Byron's Manfred^ did

prove one thing—namely, that Byron was not

such a wild fool as he sometimes appeared.

Apropos of Manfred, he wrote to the excellent

Murray on 15 February 1817 : "You mayperceive, by this outline, that I have no great

opinion of this piece of fantasy, but I have at

least rendered it quite impossible for the stage,

for which my intercourse with Drury Lane has

given me the greatest contempt. I have not

even copied it off, and I feel too lazy at present

to attempt the whole ; but when I have, I will

send it you, and you may either throw it onthe fire or not," And on 3 March he wrote :

" I sent you the other day, in two covers, the

first act of Manfred, a drama as mad as Nat Lee's

Bedlam tragedy, which was in twenty-five acts

and some odd scenes : mine is but in three acts."

And on 9 March he wrote :" The thing, you

will see at a glimpse, could never be attempted

or thought of for the stage. I much doubt if

for publication even. ... I composed it actually

with a horror of the stage, and with a view to

render the thought of it impractical, knowing

the zeal of my friends that I should try that for

which I have an invincible repugnance—namely,

representation." Why the Stage Society should

have chosen to put upon the stage what is after

all nothing but the noise of Byron affectedly

198

BYRON ON THE STAGE

and picturesquely weeping for his strange sin, I

cannot imagine. Still, it is the first business

of the Stage Society to experiment ; so I donot complain. The scenery looked as if it hadsurvived from the first British performance of

Die Walkure. Heavens ! What Alps

!

3 August 1 91 8,

199

COUPONSThe change in the value of the meat coupon

has had a disastrous effect upon the private

lives of those who eat mainly in restaurants andclubs ; for—at any rate in the more dignified

and righteous palaces—it has practically abolished

the half-coupon. The committees of some clubs

protect themselves against the vi^rath of their

members by exhibiting a copy of the FoodRegulation which compels them (in theory) to

yield up to the Control one coupon for every five

ounces of uncooked meat. Useless to tell the

patron of restaurants that he can now employall his coupons for beef ; he could always do so !

And almost useless to tell the clubman that hecan now have ham ad lib. He is alreadv sick

to death of pig. He has pig for breakfast andthen for lunch, and often eke for dinner whencoupons run short or his wife has confiscated the

week's supply. Happily the coupon is not

always insisted upon in certain restaurants

—

restaurants which I will not name. There are

restaurants, and good ones, in which, after a

mock search for your ration-book, you can moanto the head-waiter that you have forgotten it,

and the head-waiter, after pulling a pained,

sympathetic face, will say, with a noble gesture :

" I suppose I must give you one of my coupons."

And he produces a coupon from a receptacle

similar to that in which he keeps his inexhaustible

supply of saccharine. And there are restaurants

200

COUPONS

in which any fragment of a coupon, or anything

that looks like a coupon, will serve for any quantity

of meat for any number of persons.

The fact is, the Food Control cannot control

the coupon system. In order to do so effectively

it would be necessary to bring back the entire

Army from the Front to act as checkers. I amtold that coupons are weighed in mass by the

Control, a method which simply invites various

ingenuities of evasion. And frequently the

Control does not even weigh ; it ignores, especi-

ally in the provinces. As one of a party of six

the other day I sat down in a hotel to an admir-

able and entire leg of mutton. The obscene

word " coupon " was not breathed in that very

correct hotel, which had doubtless never heardof the Food Control, nor guessed that frightful

tyrants exist in Palace Chambers.

In the luxurious and political portions of

Paris meat difficulties are over, but not sugar

difficulties. The French, however, being an

ingenious and resourceful race, can create sugar

out of nothing. If in a fashionable restaurant youwant sugar and have none, you call the waiter

and you say :" Waiter, my cloak-room number

is so-and-so. I must have left my sugar-packet

there. Please go and get it for me." And hegoes and gets it for you. This is Gallic. Wecould never imitate it successfully. We have not

the requisite refined sense of style. On the

201


other hand, French children are very British.

Wlien Big Bertha has fired, the street urchins

playing together give a loud cheer. It is certain

that London kids would do the same.

17 August 1 91 8.

202

THE MERRT WIDOWWhen I first saw it at Brighton, this spectacle

had already become a classic. But to me it

seemed to be just the same old thing over again.

The music was much less " charming " (other-

wise, superficially and temporarily attractive)

even than I had expected. A troupe of aboutforty, with elaborate scenery, costumes, andproperties. The girl principals had apparently

been chosen for their looks. Not one could

avoid the most glaring false emphasis. Thus a

heroine looking at a man asleep on a sofa, there

being no other man asleep on the stage :" But

he may wake up," instead of " He may wake «/>."

This kind of blunder recurred constantly. Also

such pronunciations as " recog«jj<?." The maleprincipals were better. The story was all aboutgetting drunk, whoring, and obtaining money.There was nothing else in the piece at all, except

a certain insistence on patriotism. The herohad a string of six trollops from Maxim's, andthe names of these light ones were on the lips

of the other characters the whole time. Strange

that a concoction of such piquant ingredients

should result in such excruciating boredom.I stood two acts, and then I left, preferring to

die in bed than in the stalls of a theatre.

203

TRAVEL AND POLITICSOne night a man and woman had a long

conversation in the hotel writing-room, a place

certainly not intended for conversation. He wasa military officer, with a face so red that it mighthave been painted. He had been through the

Staff College. He spoke in a quiet voice, slowly,

with a restrained and judicial demeanour. Hehad evidently attained, or had maintained frombirth, a high degree of stupidity. The womanchiefly listened. Her turn had not come. Butshe showed at intervals a determination to get

her turn. She was interested in charities. Theofficer recounted how he had been to Readingat election time, and had observed that the

walls of the town were covered with obviously

inaccurate coloured posters.

" I said to myself :* What sort of a mind must

the British voter have to be influenced by such

things ? '"

He spoke with the air of a psychologist whohad made a great and startling discovery about

the mentality of the British, and on the discovery

he proceeded to build an immense superstructure

of political theory. Coloured posters had beennecessary to awaken him to an elementary truth

concerning human nature.

oThen, going far backward, he said that he

had read in the Times Joseph Chamberlain's

Tariff Reform scheme, knowing nothing about

Tariff Reform—knowing not even what the

204

TRAVEL AND POLITICS

words meant. He had " waited six months for

a reply," and had seen only one, which wasmere personal abuse of Chamberlain. " There-

fore," the six months being up, he had come to

believe in Tariff Reform, and had gone in for it

blind. But his most interesting contribution

was a theory of the effect of travel on political

opinions. He had observed that nearly all

English abroad were Unionist and Tariff Re-formers. Liberals might go abroad, but " at

the end of the voyage " they had almost always

been converted to sound politics. He cited the

saying of a ship's captain, a fervent radical, whosaid that in thirty years of the sea he had only-

met one radical passenger." Very interesting," commented the woman,

still waiting her turn.

The officer continued in his calm and judicial

voice, but as I could no longer write for his

absorbing babble, I left the room at this point.

Although I could not endorse his theory about

the sanative influence of travel on politics, I did

agree that nearly all English abroad are Con-servative. I have never yet been fortunate

enough to meet a British radical in a first-rate

foreign hotel. Politically I have invariably

suffered a great solitude in the best foreign

hotels. Indeed, the unanimity of British political

opinion abroad amounts to a most imposing

phenomenon. On the other hand I have never

heard an intelligent political discussion in English

in a foreign ^ hotel. - Never ! And fl have lived

much in foreign hotels. On social questions

205

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEthe British attitude in hotels was admirably

illustrated by the remark of a beautiful andelegant tennis-playing girl at Cannes, apropos

of a miners' strike :" They ought to be forced

down the pits and made to work." Generalagreement on the courts.

206

PRO-GERMANISMThere is a strange leniency about our magis-

trature, especially when glaring cases of pro-

Germanism come before them. Two women of

the mature ages of twenty and twenty-one re-

spectively were guilty of repeatedly asking that

tea should be given to two German prisoners

in the vicinity of Farnborough. They also wrote

to a German prisoner and enclosed to him a

packet of cigarettes. Will it be believed that

these unpatriotic females were fined only three

guineas each ? The magistrate admitted that

the case was " most serious," and yet he was" loth " to send the women to prison. One's

blood boils when one thinks of the opportunities

afforded by tea and packets of cigarettes for Hunplots, and of the misguided sentimentalism of

the magistrate in relation to so dangerous a

case. Will this Government never do anything

to root out the pro-Hunnishness which is still

so frightfully rampant among us ? Will it

wobble for ever ? What hidden hand is pro-

tecting these females ? Do not imagine that

the instance is isolated. There may be, there

probably is, an extensive secret organisation

functioning in our midst. Thus the other day

a woman, whose son fought for us at Jutland,

gave a sixpence to a German prisoner who waspassing through Cheltenham in charge of somehorses. She was fined £j^ los.—three hundredtimes her offence. But why was she not

sentenced to penal servitude for life ? Un-207

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEfortunately Parliament is " up," and these grave

matters cannot be adequately exposed to the

light. But a time will come, and it may comesooner than some people expect

!

17 August 191 8.

208

FOCHAmid these enormous events, and the sound

and dust of falling architecture and the glinting

of flames which will develop into vast conflagra-

tions, it should be remembered always that there

is one man in Europe who is entitled to say to

himself, and who no doubt is quietly saying andrepeating to himself :

" I've done it. I've

done the trick," and with difhculty believing his

own thought. For it is very well to talk about

solidarity, unification, valour, doggedness, the

inevitable triumph of noble ideals, the inevitable

failure of wrong ; the entire situation to-day

(except possibly the Palestine section thereof)

is built upon a couple of days' work in July last

and the creative strategy of one man. If the

Germans had not been out-manoeuvred in Julythe psychology of the whole world (and especially

the psychology of Ferdinand) would have beenutterly different and the material phenomenawould have been utterly different. The Germanswere out-manoeuvred. Experts still violently

argue about the true inwardness of the first

battle of the Marne, but common people will

unanimously maintain that the man who pulled

the fat out of the fire in the summer of 191 8 is

the same man who pulled the fat out of the fire

in the autumn of 191 4. What was he doing

in the long interval ? Few among us could

say offhand. Assuredly he was not doing whato 209


he ought to have been doing : that is, command-ing the Allied forces. Is it not marvellous that

his classic work on vi^ar has only just now been

translated into English ? True, as a race, wehate and distrust general principles ! Never-

theless the fact emerges that the greatest general

has at last reached the top.

•^>

We do not yet fully realise the potential

prestige of Foch. Even to-day in the popular

legend he has by no means reached the looming

Titanism of Ludendorff or even of Hindenburg.

Nor does he stand where Joffre stood. Thecareers of big generals are astounding. Hinden-

burg threw down his newspaper and walked

out of a little cafe in a little provincial town, and

crossed the German Empire to kill a hundredthousand Russians in a day. He had it in himto do one thing, and he did it perfectly—and it

was a large thing. The rest of his reputation

was meretricious. Nothing could stop Luden-dorff from climbing over him. Ludendorff

has about forty times more brain than Hinden-

burg. Ludendorff was passing himself off as one

of the greatest generals of all time. He did all

but become one of the greatest generals of all

time. Then it was discovered that he was

lavishing on war highly distinguished gifts whichHeaven had meant for the gaming saloon. Hewas indeed a very finished poker-player—wholost. He showed a countenance calculated to

persuade nearly everybody that " three of a

kind " was a " royal flush." LTnhappily for

210

FOCH

him, someone, or some mysterious force, said to

him at the wrong moment :" I'll see you."

And that was the end of Ludendorff as one of

the greatest generals of all time.

5 October 191 8.

211

MISCELLANEOUS READINGMy habit is to buy, inter alia, books with

semi-reputations or with no reputation at all,

in the hope of discovering something good that

the public has missed. Lately, alarmed by the

steady increase of these unread and unassessed

volumes in my library, I have taken to reading" in " books instead of reading them, so as to

get as quickly as possible some adequate notion

of the stock in hand—with results certainly

informative but otherwise not very satisfactory.

It seems to me that few really first-rate books can

have failed to make a first-rate reputation for

themselves, and that " subterranean " reputa-

tions are not very well justified. The public

does not miss much. I got F. Manning's

Scenes and Portraits, on the strength of high

praise of it from people who ought to be able

to judge. Well, I couldn't read it. The author

is very clever and original, and sometimes

suggestive ; but he does not know his job. He is

an amateur. He cannot hold the thing together,

and his literary sense is very defective. Simi-

larly, I attacked several books of Bernhard

Berenson's which I have possessed for years. I

suppose that Mr. Berenson's competence as a

critic of painting is entirely authentic. But he

too has failed to develop the talent for holding

a thing together. Nor can he express himself

clearly. Nor, despite grammatical correctitude,

can he even manipulate a sentence for the reader's

benefit. He continually baffles the reader. And,212

MISCELLANEOUS READING

still in the region of art criticism, Mr. Herbert

Furst's imposing and fully illustrated book on

Chardin is worse. Its literary amateurishness,

shown as much in the absence of general design

as in detailed inefficiency, is acute. I hoped for

better satisfaction from Mr. Charles Ricketts'

book on Titian. Ricketts on Titian ! Thecombination promised lusciously. I was not

wholly disappointed. Mr. Ricketts is an individu-

ality with a definite attitude towards both life

and art, with unusual perceptions, with originality

and courage to match. His book, though con-

fused and far too allusive, is interesting. It

would be more interesting, and less irritating,

if he had not set out to write with " style." Hehas achieved one or two pretty good passages of

"style," but as a rule he achieves a mere delicate

preciosity which is full of the maladroit. He just

is not sufficiently expert. I was disgusted with

Baudrillart's rather well-known work, Histoire

du Luxe, and I wish I had never bought those

four buxom volumes. The subject is splendid,

the treatment rotten. A shocking example of

shameless book-making—as bad (and this is

saying a lot) as Charles Vogel's " free trans-

lation " of Friedlander's Mceurs Romaines. I

suppose that these books are the sort of concoction

that Brunet's Manuel du Libraire would amiably

describe as " ouvrages estimes.^^ My most success-

ful quarry recently has been Gregorovius's History

of the City of Rome in the Middle Ages. It maynot be great, but it is thoroughly good, and can

be perused without fatigue for hours at a stretch.

213


I would put it a little below Ferrero's The Great-

ness and Decline of Rome, of which it may be called

in part a sequel. Ferrero is more brilliant.

Ferrero knows all about the craft of writing. Hehas nothing to learn about the manipulation of

sentences. Few authors seem to realise that the

first business of an author is to write, and that,

if an author cannot write, whatever his other

qualifications may be, he has no excuse for

producing a book.

214

PRAYERI READ on the walls of this city that religious

bodies throughout the country have interpreted

recent events as an answ^er to prayer. In accord-

ance with such a view, further prayer-meetings

were held at Queen's Hall on Tuesday last, andit seems probable that these will prove equally

successful. They were certainly under careful

management. In large letters on the posters

were the words :" Front reserved seats, is. to

each meeting." People who will arrange to sell

reserved seats at a solemn appeal intended to

influence the designs of an omnipotent andinscrutable Deity concerning the destinies of

mankind will probably have the notion of makingsimilar arrangements for the Day of Judgment.For many years I have been going about saying

that no manifestation of human nature could

shock me. I was wrong.

i; October 191 8.

215

RESPECT FOR BRAINSA MAN with a long hooked nose (not a Jew),

aged from forty to forty-five, was talking with his

wife to an older couple. He had charge of the

conversation. He said he liked walking. Hewould take long walks, anything up to forty-eight

miles, and enjoy them. He also liked driving.

Yes, he liked to be behind a pair of good horses.

But he liked motoring too ; and his little boyknew the make of every motor at sight—even to

motor-cabs. Then about books. " If you wereto see the books I buy. If I live to be a thousand

I shan't read half of 'em. Haven't read half

Dickens and Thackeray yet. I have a friend, a

bookseller in Charing Cross Road, and whenthere's a library for sale he always lets me knowand I go to the sale. I like light books myself.

Now there's Wells's Tono-Bungay. I read that.

I lent it to men with minds, those brainy

people, two or three of them, and they weredelighted with it— Oh ! quite enthusiastic.

Well, of course it was good, but I couldn't see

so much in it myself because I haven't got the

mind." (He was very frank and nice, and I

saw that there must be a large class of persons

who frankly recognise the existence of a brainy

class intellectually above them.) He namedFrank Danby, Hichens, Mason, and several others

as being specially readable. " Of course they're

not great—nothing great in them ; but they

pass the time. ... I frankly admit to reading

a lot of trash." His wife, though she seemed2l6

RESPECT FOR BRAINS

rather a dull, common woman, said with sincerity

that she did like Shakespeare. The older couple

had no interest in books whatever ; but this

fact did not apparently disturb the bookwormin the least.

21:

EGYPTOLOGYSo far as I know, nothing has yet been said

in the lay (as distinguished from the specialist)

Press about the importance of dealing with

archaeological excavations and kindred matters

at the Peace Congress. Some may wonder what

on earth archaeology has to do with the felicity

of peoples, and how a nation with any sense of

proportion can worry itself about excavations

at a time when the'structure of society is being

recast. But the intelligent will not wonder,

being well aware that archaeology is a branch of

study essential to the felicity of peoples. I

hope that some British statesmen, or at least

one, will go to the Peace Congress with a few

clear ideas about the bearing of politics uponarchaeology. The French will certainly have a

good deal to say on the subject. Perhaps it

may occur to the Prime Minister to take with

him to Paris Mr. Arthur James Balfour, the

Foreign Secretary, among his other luggage.

The condition of archaeological affairs in Egypt,

for example, is very unsatisfactory. When the

French, in the early eighties, left us to manage

Egypt, they arranged that the Director of the" Service des Antiquites " should be a French-

man, The idea was natural enough, for they

have a strong sentimental interest in Egypt,

partly on account of Napoleon, and partly on

account of Champollion (" the Younger "), who,

I believe, is for good reason regarded as the

218

EGYPTOLOGY

founder of modern Egyptology. Much has

happened since the early eighties to strengthen

the British position in Egypt, but the Director

of the Service des Antiquites is still rigorously

a Frenchman. Indeed, by the Treaty of 1904it was expressly agreed afresh that he should be

a Frenchman. There have been great French-

men in the post. The last great one was Maspero,

who has been succeeded by a gentleman whose

speciality is not archaeology but philology. Thewhole question ought to be reopened. It ought

to be reopened for two reasons. The first reason

is that the French authorities are not properly

looking after the aforesaid antiquities, and, of

course, we are getting the blame for the neglect

into which precious remains have fallen. Pierre

Loti, in his dolorous ecstasy. La Mort de Philce,

chid the wretched barbaric English alone.

(ViTiich is just what he would do.) The second

reason is that antiquities cannot be satisfactorily

handled unless the direction of the matter is

under the control of the Government which is

actually governing the country where the

antiquities lie. When the management of the

antiquities is in the hands of a subject of one

Government, and the country is run by another

Government, little can be done at the instance

of the latter without a " diplomatic question "

immediately arising. Be it borne in mind that

nothing can relieve us of our responsibility

before the world for Egyptian antiquities. TheDirector thereof ought plainly to be an English-

man, and I doubt not (that the Englishman can

219


be provided. We might then cut a better figure

than we are cutting. We might even try to

catch up with the United States, which, as a

nation, is capable of far more excitement aboutantiquities than ourselves.

And the Egyptian question is only a part of

the much larger question of the effect of military

victory upon the study of archaeology. Un-imaginable new fields have been set free to the

excavator and the student. There are Mesopo-tamia, Syria, Palestine—yes, and the Balkans.

All these fields ought to be systematically dis-

tributed, by a special committee of the PeaceCongress, among the Powers concerned ; andthe principle upon which they ought to bedistributed is plain.

30 November 191 8.

220

PLAY-LICENSINGThere is serious news as to freedom of speech.

The Lord Chamberlain has refused to license

Brieux's Maternite. I cannot imagine why,unless it is that the play contains some references

to abortion. I do not regard Brieux as a great

dramatist ; but he is a considerable moralist,

and the worst of his plays is a million times

better than any musical comedy which mighttreat maternity in the bawdy manner, and whichthe Lord Chamberlain would license without a

murmur. I wonder what Lord Sandhurst is

about. He licensed Les Avaries. He may havedone so at a hint from the War Office, which at

one time was much alarmed about venereal

disease. But he did license it. In Maternite

we have a play which has been performed all

over the world without protest. Protest against

it would indeed be absurd. Lord Sandhurstkills it, and of course he gives no reason. Thematter ought to be inquired into. Some time

ago the Lord Chamberlain used to be advised

about debatable plays by a committee thus

wonderfully constituted : Sir Edward Carson,

Sir Walter Raleigh, Lord Buckmaster, Sir Squire

Bancroft, and Sir John Hare. The last namedhas, I feel sure, retired. My information is

that the Committee does not meet, but that

debatable plays are sent round for individual

opinions thereon. Were the individual opinions

unanimous about Maternite ? Or were they not ?

Looking at the personnel of the Committee,221


I am ready to wager that they were not. Indeed,

I know they were not. And if they were not,

why did not the excellent Court official give the

play the benefit of the doubt instead of rendering

his country ridiculous in the eyes of the civilised

world ?

14 December 191 8.

222

ROSTANDEdmond Rostand married young, made his

success young, and died young. He was only

thirty when Cyrano de Bergerac dazzled the

critical and the vast uncritical worlds. Hebecame an Academician at thirty-four, and he

died at fifty. The triumph of Cyrano furnished

one of the most extraordinary instances on record

of the complete deception of an audience of

highly sophisticated experts. There is no doubt

that Catulle Mendes was, for once in his life,

absolutely sincere in his esctasy when he raved

about this sadly fustian play. Everybody whowas anybody agreed with Mendes. In four hours

Rostand was transformed by magic into the

greatest genius of all time. Cyrano could be

better judged on its merits at the rather mournful

revival of it at the Gaite in the early nineteen

hundreds, with Jean Coquelin in his father's part.

Roxane was then taken by Marguerite Moreno,an exceedingly witty woman and the best diseuse

in France. To hear Moreno enunciate even

such a simple question as " Qu'est-ce ? " was

to receive light on the inexhaustible question

of stage diction. The revival failed. Rostand's

next " great " play was UAiglon, a work of

immense length which failed in spite of the

universal determination that it should be a

success. After UAiglon Rostand didn't mature

another idea for a " great " play for ten

years. His period of gestation was enormous.

The crowing of Chantecler was engineered by

223


the supreme theatrical advertiser of the earth,

Henri Herz. Herz in those days was not a manbut a miracle. He familiarly addressed all

actresses, even the most distinguished, as " mabelle creatureP (They loved it.) Herz saw

that Chantecler offered the opportunity of his

life. The difficulties were extreme, for the

younger school had already discovered that

Rostand had no genius ; but the possibilities

were huge. Herz elaborated the boom for quite

two years, and reached his first climax with the

arrival of Rostand and the Rostand family in

Paris for the rehearsals. The Rostands " de-

scended " at the Hotel Majestic, just opened;

and it was stated, whether truly or not I cannot

say, that Herz not only arranged that no hotel

bills should be presented, but exacted a daily

payment to himself from the hotel. It is certain

that people stayed at the hotel for the sole satis-

faction of seeing Rostand. They saw him.

Chantecler^ if it did not fail, was not a success;

and the career of Rostand ended. He had a

considerable sense of the theatre ; he could

play with words and with conceits ; he was full

of such pretty notions as the falling of deadleaves upon the body of a dying man. Buthe was not a poet, and his gift was no moreauthentic than the influenza which a few weeks

ago prevented Marshal Joffre from coming to

London. I see that a London newspaper called

Rostand modest. He was retiring, but assuredly

he was not modest. The entire family versified.

Madame Rostand has written many verses quite

224

ROSTAND

as good as her husband's, and she is very highly

esteemed by the readers of UIllustration.

Maurice Rostand at fourteen was a marvellous

boy, handsome, mature, elegant, and already a

somewhat accomplished craftsman. His promisewas altogether too brilliant ; no one could havefulfilled it, and he has not fulfilled it.

I /^ December 191 8.

2ZS

THE CORNET AT ELECTIONSThe election was not everywhere quite so

inexpressibly tedious as it proved to be in central

London. Indeed, it may live in the history of

elections as the cradle of a new form of election-

eering. A certain candidate in the industrial

Midlands faced, and solved, the problem of the

woman voter in a scientific and original spirit,

and with the most startling and spectacular

success. Being shorthanded, like all captains of

all peace industries in these days, he was con-

fronted by the impossibility of visiting each and

every new voter in her home. He saw that it

simply could not be done, and that instead of

going to the new voter he must inveigle the newvoter to come to him. An automobile by itself

was useless. Even the meanest streets are so

accustomed to cars at election time that no

hooting and tooting will suffice to arouse the

serious sex from its domestic preoccupations.

The enterprising fellow hit on the combination

of a motor-car and a cornet. Dashing down a

street and stopping, he put on a professional

cornet-player to perform his loudest. The whole

street would rush out to see what on earth was

happening. Whereupon the candidate, having

thus ingeniously collected all the new voters

within earshot, began his harangue. It is ex-

226

THE CORNET AT ELECTIONS

pected that he will get in, and he deserves to

get in. Of course you will assume that he is a

Coalitionist. But no ! Ke is a mere uncouponedHbertine Liberal.

21 December 191 8.

227

TWO GENERALSSaid one Divisional General to another

:

" How should you define Bolshevism? " Said the

other Divisional General, with pained finality

:

" I'll tell you what Bolshevism is, old thing.

It's simply pure Socialism ! That's what Bol-

shevism is."

228

AN OFFICER'S GRIEVANCEThe other day I met a British officer who had

been wounded nine times, captured by the

Germans while in a state of unconsciousness, andin England reported killed. He seemed to be

perfectly well and perfectly cheerful. But one

matter had aroused his resentment. It was not

that as a prisoner he had received only six parcels

out of thirty-nine dispatched by his friends. It

was not that on returning to life and Englandhe had had to pay for the advertisements of his

own decease in the Times and the later advertise-

ments contradicting the same. It was that his

solicitor had forwarded to him, among other

bills, a bill thus conceived :" To Memorial

Service (fully choral), three guineas." Somehowthe words " fully choral " rankled in his mind.

229

AT A PUBLIC DINNERFew phenomena can be more conservative in

tone than a public banquet. Things pleasantly

revive there that have been interred decades

ago even in club smoking-rooms. The affair last

night was in honour of a famous hotel proprietor,

and a famous Alderman of the City of Londonwas in the chair. The chairman, remembering" commercial days," gave the old adhortation :

" May the tears of friendship crystallise as they

fall, and be worn as jewels by those we love."

It was charming. It was received with sincere

enthusiasm. The chairman also, and with equal

success, told the old story of two Yorkshiremenon their respective Mayors. Said the first :

*' Our Mayor wears a bl j great chain." Said

the second :" We let our old beggar go loose."

And finally, twitting a rival hotel, he told the

classic story, so full of ineffable implications,

of the lady who had forgotten both the numberof her room and the name of her husband.

Beneath the general upper layers of jolly content

with the world were the usual bitter individual

dissatisfactions. For example, at the same table

as my friend A and myself sat a young man,aged about thirty-one, with bad teeth. He was

depressed and peevish, and obviously preoccupied

by the labour situation. He said he had workedfive years in an engineering shop and knew whatwork was. The working man was spoiled, andthat was all there was to it. Spoiled ! WhenA produced an opposing argument, he merely

230

AT A PUBLIC DINNER

replied :" Nonsense ! Nonsense !

" with a calm, \

peevish superiority—and this after about five '

minutes' acquaintance ! Then A discreetly j

changed the topic and quite by accident tried 3

music, in which he happens to be interested.

The young man's whole demeanour altered i

immediately. He was an amateur oboe player, I

and quite keen. He really knew very little \

about music, but he played the oboe, and he

was a different man from the moment of the |

introduction of the word " orchestra."

231

LIFE OF A GIRLA FRIEND sociologically interested in such

records gave me this brief biography of a girl.

The girl's mother was a harsh woman. Herfather was a chemist, but he tippled, and in the

end lost his business. Then the mother cameinto a fairly substantial legacy. The father and

mother lived on this till they lost the entire

capital in a bad investment. The shock of the

solicitor's letter informing him of the disaster

killed the father instantly. He died on the spot.

The mother couldn't manage her daughter.

She said to the girl :" Here, I can't satisfy you. I

can't get you what you want. Here's twopence.

Go out and buy your own dinner." And the girl

did so. Then the girl left home and met a youngman who persuaded his mother to let her comeinto the house to live. The pair lived together

maritally, the man's mother making no objection,

as there was mutual attraction. Later, the manwent to Buenos Ayres. He wrote and asked her

to join him, but she wouldn't. She then ceased

to be interested in love. She had saved a bit

of money and at last departed to Leeds, took a

room at a little temperance hotel, and decided to

commit suicide in a fortnight. At the end of

the fourteen days she went to the railway station

and lay down before the London express. Butshe was seen from a signal-box, and the signalman

stopped the train. In the police court she

wouldn't give the magistrate any reason for the

attempted " rash act," and wouldn't promise

232

LIFE OF A GIRL

not to try again. She was committed to the

Infirmary, and once again would promise nothing,

either to the matron or to the official visitors.

She kept on good terms with the nurses ; she

helped one nurse, and the nurse lent her money.She tired the authorities out, and was eventually

released. She declined to go back to her mother,

while admitting that she still loved her mother.

Instead she went to her married sister's. Thenshe passed through various sentimental experi-

ences with various men, and ultimately reached

London. She got an engagement as a mannequinat Sylviane's, near Hanover Square, at 15s. a week.

There she met an American journalist. Theiridyll lasted three weeks, whereupon he left her

;

afterwards he wrote to her from the UnitedStates about her soul. Thenceforward the usual

adventures, each no doubt briefer than the last.

She was only nineteen when she tried to commitsuicide.

233

THE OCTOGENARIANAt Madame R.'s in Paris I met Brunet Huart,

the painter, aged eighty-four. He wore light

striped trousers, a waistcoat of black velvet, a

rather large tie, rather large and striking gloves,

and generally was dandiacal. He rememberedFlorence in 1858, and the anecdotes of KingHumbert's circus-like appearances in the Cascine.

He liked Kipling ; also Wells ; but he thoughtWells didn't explain enough. He rememberedthe fighting in the auditorium of the Theatredes Varietes, Paris, on account of a play whichmade fun of shop-assistants. The theatre wasfull of shop-assistants and their sympathisers.

When the noise grew unbearable an actor cameforward and thumped furiously on a table.

Everybody was so staggered by this impudenceof an actor to his public that silence ensued andthe actor said :

" No ! Never shall a counter-

jumper bring this curtain down." The old

gentleman was afraid of motor-cars and in

particular of his young cousin's driving. He hadjust returned from a round of family visits, endingat Bourges. Then he curved off into a long

story of an adventure in the Palazzo Orsini in

Rome (when paper money as small as 5d. wasissued—current in the city only), where he got

enormous attention from a concierge by two pay-

ments of a franc each. " The concierge wouldhave given me a bed in the Palace, I think," said

he. He had a curious and unusual knowledge

of the relative sizes of things, from St. Peter's

234

THE OCTOGENARIAN

downwards. He was certain that a revolution

would occur within six months, precipitated by-

losses due to inundation and bad harvests, and

consequent labour unrest. He said that he hadpainted all his life, but had entered the studio of

a celebrated master only at the age of twenty-five.

He now got his military friends, colonels and so

on, to send down a soldier with a horse to serve

as models for two or three hours daily. Here he

explained in detail how he taught the soldier to

lift up the horse's leg so that he could see how the

light fell on the legs of a galloping horse. Evenrecently he had painted in the rain, enjoying the

pretty colours of barley, oats, etc. He kindly

offered to criticise my drawings. He was full of

various energy, and affirmed that he had not

begun to feel old until he was seventy. His chief

subject was undoubtedly the Palais Royal, andof course he said :

" The Palais Royal was in all

its splendour in those days, and the plays given

there were really witty" (1850-60). But the

-samples which he offered of Palais Royal wit in

those great days were feeble and flashy. Heseemed to be able to remember in detail all the

Palais Royal burlesques of popular tragedy, andhe quoted miles of tirades in verse. He talked

well, if too much.

235

MORPHIAThe second-hand furniture dealer in the Boule-

vard du Montparnasse was seated at his desk at

the back of the shop when I went in, after dark.

I asked about his wife, and he came forward andleaned against a table, and said she was really

cured of her illness, but she would never be well

till she ceased taking morphia. He inveighed

against the managers of nursing-homes whogave their patients morphia merely to quieten

them and thus let them contract the habit of

morphia. It then appeared that his wife haddefinitely become a morphinomaniac. She nowinsisted on having four to five injections a day,

and would also often take during the day fifteen

to thirty drops of laudanum, and then veronal

or sulphonal to induce sleep. If he used the old

device of an injection of pure water she detected

the trick at once. She would stop in bed for

three days and then get up for a few hours. Atthat moment she was out. She would return at

six, and would demand an injection instantly, andanother at lo p.m. If there was no morphia in

the house he simply had to go out to the chemist's

and get it, even in the night. Otherwise there

was a scene. And his wife's scenes were really

noisy. She would cry :" You are cruel. You

have no feeling. If this wasn't the ground floor

I'd throw myself out of the window." Sometimesshe would administer the injection herself, andthen there was much blood. She bought morphiafrom four or five different chemists. Yes, he

236

MORPHIA

would admit frankly that she was a morphino-maniac, and that there was nothing to be done.

Sundry doctors among their customers hadwarned her, and for a while she was impressed

and would stop, but she always began again.

Then I bought a brooch.

237

PROPHYLAXISAnother controversy has been reopened—the

question of the propriety of prophylactic treat-

ment for syphilis. Sir William Osier and a

number of other medical eminences wrote to the

Times and openly advocated prophylactic treat-

ment, stating that it was simple and effective.

Thereupon the chief official opponents of

prophylaxis, the National Society for the Pre-

vention of Venereal Disease, under the chairman-

ship of Lord Sydenham, replied with argumentsagainst prophylaxis, the principal of whichseemed to be that certain Borough Officers of

Health did not agree with the views of Sir

William Osier and his colleagues. In the

exchange, Sir William won easily. Later, a

pseudonymous correspondent, who was rightly

given a place next to the leader columns, andwho must be some celebrated layman, com-pletely finished off the National Society withgreat epigrammatic brilliancy. Lord Sydenham,who is apt to be egregious, tried once more, withlamentable results. That the National Society

is doing excellent work cannot be doubted, butits thesis that prophylaxis will encourage irre-

gular sexual intercourse cannot be sustained, for

it involves the complementary proposition that

men and women are kept virtuous by fear of

disease ; which is contrary to all experience.

Only one thing encourages irregular sexual

intercourse—and that is the existence of facilities

for it. For example, there is relatively far more238

PROPHYLAXIS

irregular Intercourse among the male inhabitants

of central London than among the male inhabi-

tants of a small provincial town. Underlyingthe thesis of the National Society is another one,

to the effect that it is immoral to try to preclude

the risks attendant upon immorality, while it is

not immoral to try to lessen the evil conse-

quences of immorality after they have occurred.

Such themes could be debated for ever, but the

man of average sagacity is not likely to be inter-

ested in them. The man of average sagacity

would wish to know what is the nature of the

simple and effective prophylactic which is guaran-

teed and advocated by the highest authorities

in medical science. And if the general public

through the ordinary channels may not havethis information, the man of average sagacity

would wish to know why. It may be asserted

of all parties to the controversy that whateverelse they may be they are mystery-mongers.

II January 1 91 9.

239

AT THE QUAI D'ORSAYTERMINUS, PARIS

It was three o'clock and already dusk. I

ordered tea on the terrasse of the Station cafe

within the station. It is a very good cafe. Youcould judge by the crystalline cleanness of the

decanters. A middle-aged man sat down, drank

a red liquid, paid, and departed instantly. Twoworkmen simultaneously ascended the two sides

of a high ladder and began to adjust an arc lampup in the air. From the floor below there was

such a continuous rumbling of trains that it was

a little difficult to hear speech on the terrasse.

All the big lamps lighted themselves, as it were,

clumsily and uncertainly ; and there was a

complicated change in the values beneath the

great arches of the roof. But the vast glazed

end of the station showed silvery light for a long

time afterwards. Faint clouds of steam rose

occasionally from below, and through these the

electricity would shine like the sun through

fog. The activities of the station were very

numerous. The Paris directory was constantly

being consulted ; also the exceedingly foul

Chaix railway guide. The slot machines for

platform tickets functioned all the time. Thelatest telegraphic news was pinned up at intervals

;

the meteorological news had a separate board.

The evening papers arrived at the two bookstalls,

240

AT THE QUAI D'ORSAY TERMINUS, PARIS

and were separated and folded on special folding

tables. Two tobacco shanties, one in charge of

a young girl and the other of a woman, did

ceaseless business. Similarly with bonbons at

another booth. Game licences were dispensed

in still another booth. A wagon-buffet, withchiefly flasks of liqueurs, trundled eternally to

and fro. Luggage-lifts full of luggage kept

ascending and descending ; and in the arrival

section luggage was shifted forward in an unend-ing procession of trunks and bags on a movingmetal band. The bridge spanning the chasmin which the trains were hidden led to a wholerow of offices. Policemen and other officials,

uniformed and not uniformed, were always

flitting about. Some of them, not uniformed,

would approach barriers and unlock the barriers

with magic keys. Lots of travellers stopped to

study the notice about floods. " The train for

Nantes goes no farther than Angers," and so on.

Towards five o'clock the place grew muchbusier. All the considerable seating accom-modation was taken up, and the waiting-rooms

were fuller. The entire acreage of the immensemain hall became wet from the feet of travellers.

(Outside it never stopped raining.) The left-

luggage office was enormously patronised. Abell rang occasionally for the departure of a

rafide. Two Spanish women stood talking just

outside in the rain. An English nurse appeared

in charge of a girl nearly as old as herself and twoQ 241


young hoys. The one regular phenomenon was

the illuminated clock. It functioned ruthlessly,

and seemed rather like a sardonic deity presiding

over an apparatus that was extravagantly big

for its purpose.

242

STREET CRIESAfter the ^^50,000 fire at Barker's, Kensington,

in which four servant girls were killed, crowdswere standing about, for what purpose it wasimpossible to guess, and hawkers with black-

edged memorial cards were crying :" In loving

memory of the victims ! In loving memory of

the victims." And the crowds were purchasing

the cards.

243

AFTER THE ARMISTICEInto the country I went to do some work for

a change after the officialism which the war hadimposed upon me. In this case the country was

a village of 1200 inhabitants on a m.ain line out

of London, At the beginning of the war the

superior, truly patriotic people in the village

had lamented that this village was less patriotic

than surrounding villages. (The superior, truly

patriotic people in every village were saying just

the same of their village.) Nevertheless, this

village sent over 12 per cent, of its total inhabitants

to the war even before conscription, and some-thing like 16 per cent, in all. And when I got

back there a nice young woman stepped across

the road to me and said :" Excuse me speaking

to you, sir, but we're getting up a tea for our

returned prisoners." Among other things, I

heard that a man who was supposed to have

perished in the hands of the Turks after Kuthad arrived safely at his mother's house. And a

Battery which had enlivened the village for twoyears had vanished except for a score of men. Sothat the war was really over in the village. AnAsquithian standing as a champion of Labourhad lost by a neck (owing to the overseas vote)

in the Election to the Coalition candidate. Butnobody in the village seemed to be interested in

politics. At any rate, not in national or inter-

national politics. As for the Kaiser's head,

indemnities, Britain for the British, and similar

matters, I heard not a word, though German244

%AFTER THE ARMISTICE

prisoners armed with dangerous agricultural

weapons and quite unguarded were all over the

place. Much less nonsense was talked in the

village than in Chambers of Commerce aboutmaking Germany pay. A roadmender said to

me :" I reckon her's got to eat first."

oLocal politics, however, which after all are the

basis of national and international politics, did

make a good second to the weather in topics of

real discussion. The absence of frost took primeplace, for without speedy frosts the land wouldnever " work." Then the house-famine. Thendemobilisation. Then the proposed memorial to

the fallen. A public meeting was called to discuss

the question of the memorial. The clergyman

began the proceedings by stating his decision

that the memorial must be associated exclusively

with the Church of England. As a fact, the

clergyman wanted a new organ, and he was filled

with the notion that a new organ was the only

conceivable, proper, or practicable memorialto the fallen. Whereupon a Nonconformistarose in the meeting (there are several chapels

in the village), and started off by asserting the

arguability of the position that the memorialneed not necessarily be associated exclusively

with the Church of England. (The clergymandraws an average congregation of about twentyto his services.) Whereupon the clergyman beat

the Nonconformist down and asserted that he

was out of order because he was trying to argue

that which ex hypothesi was not arguable. Where-

245

I

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEupon the Nonconformists departed from the

meeting, and it finished somewhat abruptly.

Whatever happens, it is fairly certain that the

clergyman will not achieve his new organ. I

suppose that the prevalence of clergymen similar

to this clergyman is the origin of the term " TheChurch Militant." Anyhow, the village wasgenuinely interested. And the tea to returned

prisoners is going to be a considerable success.

Later on, it is hoped, a tea will be offered to

men returning from the British Army. Butnot yet

!

Meanwhile, round about, " shoots " are going

on. Hounds are killing or drawing blank.

Estimates are being prepared for the refitting of

yachts. The merits of rival designs for newmotor-cars are being discussed. Dodges for

enticing young women into domestic service are

being discussed. Plans are being made for world-

travel. The wines of the future, the price of

season-tickets and of suits and millinery, the

decline of the poetry-boom, the fullness of

restaurants, the prospects for the theatre—these

furnish topics of animated conversation. Andthe necessity of a bathroom for each guest-room

in the after-war house is frankly admitted. It is

all most astonishing ; it is wildly funny, having

regard to the fact that millions of people are

starving in Europe and hundreds of millions are

on the edge of starvation, and that anarchy is

more infectious than influenza. Still, deep in

every heart is doubtless the thought : " I wonder

246

AFTER THE ARMISTICE

what tuill happen ? " For men and womenin beautiful and spacious homes are not such

bland lunatics as they may seem when they

prattle of their historic ideals.

25 January 1919.

247

ORTHODOXYI CANNOT say that I was surprised to read a

newspaper report of a private in the RoyalEngineers who was fined six days' pay because,

being very tired, he was fool enough to go to

sleep in church. It was the clergyman who noted

his offence, and who thoughtfully and kindly

reported it to the commanding officer. This is

the sort of thing that so endears our ancient armysystem to the intelligent citizen. Nevertheless,

the ancient army system is not without merit,

and sometimes works both ways, as it did in the

present case. For on the next Sunday the com-pany of Royal Engineers combined to boycott

the collection plate of the good clergyman andgave 30s. to the sleeping sinner instead.

But I really am somewhat surprised at a

recent action of that vast institution, the CampsLibrary, whose chairman is Sir Edward Ward(forty-four years' military service), and whosehonorary director is the Honourable Dame EvaAnstruther. We are being specially urged just

now to remember that the soldiers still boundto the slack tedium of military duty need litera-

ture for their diversion. I have supported the

Camps Library myself ; but I shall hesitate about

doing so in future—and I imagine that many248

ORTHODOXY

others will hesitate—until some satisfactory ex-

planation is given of the fact that the authorities

controlling the Camps Library obstinately refuse

gifts of books by Darwin, Huxley, Tyndall,

Mill, Spencer, Matthew Arnold, Lecky, RayLankester, and other illustrious champions of

man's right to think for himself. In the autumnof last year a clergyman named NoUoth protested

in the Daily Mail against the pernicious spread

of rationaHst literature in military camps. Theofficial ban on Darwin, Matthew Arnold, and Co.appears to have been the result of this clerical

protest. Messrs. Watts are the publishers of

the cheap reprints of the aforesaid improperauthors, and they had made a habit of present-

ing copies of their publications to the CampsLibrary. It was intimated to them that the

habit must cease. Correspondence ensued. Thefollowing was the final epistle from the Honour-able Dame Eva Anstruther : "In reply to yourletter of the 23rd December, which I haveshown to our chairman, Sir Edward Ward, I

I

regret that I have nothing to add to my letter of

\

19th November informing you that, as we are

j

reorganising this Library, we do not for the

I present see our way to accepting your kind offer

of the popular scientific reprints." And so

that's that. I should like to inquire whetherthe Camps Library refuses, or has ever refused,

orthodox Church of England literature. I should

also like to ask how long " for the present

"

is to continue. As long as it continues we are

fronted with the interesting phenomenon that

249


our " citizen army " is being officially deprived

of an opportunity of reading Darwin's Origin

of Species and Matthew Arnold's Literature and,

Dogma,

I February 191 9.

250

CARTOONISTSThe reproduction in the Manchester Guardian

of a political cartoon from the Sydney Bulletin,

illustrating Mr. Hughes in the act of speechifying

to the Australian Press delegates to this country,

brings one sharply up once more against the fact

that there is no political caricature in Englandworth three-halfpence. The Bulletin cartoon is

really very funny ; it is also well drawn ; andits humour is in the drawing and not in the

letterpress. I do not know who the cartoonist

is,^ but if the Press-lords of this country hadany genuine imagination, they would immedi-ately begin to compete for the services of that

cartoonist and get him to London on the next

steamer. When one thinks of the melancholy

and ridiculous efforts of Punch in the domain of

political caricature, and of the tenth-rate draw-

ings in the popular dailies, one perceives that life

in Sydney must have appreciable compensations.

But our Press-lords seem to be obsessed by a

single idea—the imitation of one another. I amstill waiting for a popular weekly illustrated in

colour. We ourselves have cheap fashion papers

and boys' papers illustrated in colour. Our sole

coloured monthly is an established success. Butno Press-lord has yet bethought himself to

inaugurate a popular coloured weekly. No doubteach is waiting for a rival to start the thing.

I February 191 9.

^ The cartoonist was Mr. Low, and he has been induced tocome to London by the proprietors of the Star.

251

SUNDAY THEATRESMr. Arthur Bourchier has this week revived

the " agitation " (as it is certain to be called)

for Sunday theatres. For myself I am in favour

of Sunday theatres. I accept Mr. Bourchier's

description of the present illegality of Sundayperformances as " a stupid survival of the darkest

form of Puritanism." Sunday cinemas havesquelched all the stock arguments against Sundaytheatres, and Mr. Bourchier scores effectively

when he points out that the other SundayScandal, which he could not play at the StrandTheatre, was given on the film across the road.

Here my agreement with Mr. Bourchier ends.

He wants to have the theatre open on Sundays,

but to stipulate that plays performed on Sundaysshall not be performed on weekdays. He sees

in this device a chance for reviving " serious andintellectual drama." He thinks that managers" would risk, for a run of a few Sundays, experi-

mental productions upon which they could

never depend to fill their theatres eight or nine

times a week." I don't. Nor do I assent to

Mr. Bourchier's assumption that managers exist

who are hungering to produce " serious " plays,

but who are prevented from doing so by the

dearth of theatres. I recall, for example, the

recently concluded joint management of the

Haymarket Theatre, which had a free hand if

ever a management had, and which producedthree plays, none of which had the slightest

interest for intelligent people. In my opinion,

252

SUNDAY THEATRES

the main reason why plays for intelligent people

are not produced is that such plays are not

written. I have personally taken a hand in a

search for these fabled plays which are alleged to

be awaiting production, and I have not yet comeacross them in any quantity worth talking about.

Mr. Bourchier's notions, however, are decidedly

more in accordance with the tendency of humannature than Canon Adderley's. Canon Adderleywould agree to Sunday plays if they are serious,

and he suggests that the Sabbath should begin

about 7 p.m. on Saturday and end about 7 p.m.

on Sunday. He sees here a device for getting

people to bed early on Saturday, and getting

them to morning service on Sunday. Holysimplicity

!

22 February 191 9.

1S^

ROPSStill more about the censorship. In June

last a firm of picture-dealers in London, very

honourably known, ordered from Amsterdamfifteen etchings by Felicien Rops at a total price

of ;^I27. Last month the consignment had not

reached these chaste shores, but the picture-

dealers, after long inquiry, had learnt that it

had been held up by the British Post Office, onthe ground that some of the etchings were " in-

decent." On the 24th ultimo the picture-dealers

reasoned gently with the Post Office. Theypointed out that Rops was regarded by competentauthorities as one of the greatest modern etchers,

that his works (including many of those held up)

had been publicly exhibited in London, amidthe plaudits of the most respectable journalistic

critics, that all the impugned etchings are to be

found in the Public Library of Washington, andthat Rops is well represented in all the great

collections. Also that fully illustrated books

about Rops, written by first-rate authorities,

can be bought from any good second-hand book-

seller in London. Hence the picture-dealers

hopefully asked for the release of the consign-

ment. Fond picture-dealers ! Four days later

they received the following epistle from the

G.P.O. :" I am directed by the Postmaster-

General to inform you that as certain of the

prints contained in the packet in question were

undoubtedly of an obscene character the packet

was properly stopped in the post under the

254

ROPS

regulation shown at page 17 of the Post Office

Guide. Its contents have been destroyed in

ordinary course^^ (my italics).

What is to be said about the bureaucratic

vandal responsible for the absurd destruction of

these valuable works of art except that hebehaved like an ignorant and barbarous ass ?

For, note that all the etchings were destroyed,

though only some of them were objected to.

Probably he had never heard of the illustrious

Rops. And probably, if he had been called uponto decide the fate of an injudicious selection of

pictures from the National Gallery, the Louvre,

the Prado, the Hermitage, and the New YorkMetropolitan, he would have commanded the

destruction of these also. The picture-dealers

have in practice no remedy. Can you imagine

a useful discussion about a matter of artistic

interest in the House of Commons ? 90 per

cent.—nay, 95 per cent.—of the Elect wouldask, " Who the deuce is Rops ?

" and wouldyawn till the next question. Nevertheless, the

Postmaster-General ought to blush for his sub-

ordinate ; and some rule ought to be made to

the effect that Post Office officials shall not be

permitted to destroy works of art until the

consignee has had an opportunity to appeal to

a body of experts whose decision is final. But I

doubt whether there is one member of this

innumerable Government who cares a fig, a

bilberry, or a tinker's curse about either the

255


dignity of any art or the national dignity in

regard to any art.

8 February 191 9.

<?«

A question was asked in the House about the

destruction of Rops' etchings. The Postmaster-

General admitted all the facts, and stated that

he would do nothing to alter the system whichpermitted the highly cultivated human products

of our public schools to destroy at their owncaprice the works of genius. However, the

present exposure has probably accomplished somegood, for even anonymous officials hate to be

made ridiculous in the public eye.

22 February 191 9.

oThe scandal of the destruction of a whole

series of etchings by Felicien Rops has not yet

abated. Last week the Postmaster - General

offered to the House of Commons a new defence

of his vandalistic subordinate, in which he re-

marked ex cathedra that it needed no special

training to judge whether or not a work of art

was |obscene. Wandering in what remains of

the ^National Gallery the other day, I paused in

front of more than one work and asked myself :

" Would Mr. Illingworth's censor consider this

obscene or would he not ? " And I could not

decide upon the answer. The Rops issue is

being obscured in controversy. Some may deemRops a poor artist, and they may be right, thoughthe great body of expert opinion throughout the

256

ROPS

world is against them. Some may deem some of

Rops' designs obscene, and they may be right,

though the said works are allowed to enter freely

into every other country. (Many admittedly

great artists have produced admittedly obscene

works of art.) Thousands of classic works wouldbe condemned as obscene by the average official in

his own drawing-room, and thousands are only

saved from general public obloquy by the fact

that they are protected by the prestige of a public

gallery. All this is beside the point. The point

is that a Post Office official without special training

had the right to destroy on his own responsibility

works of art which are esteemed and shown in

every important capital. The point also is that

the Post Office official destroyed a number of

works which he did not regard as obscene. Sofar as Rops is concerned, those who say that his

work is mainly obscene simply do not know whatthey are talking about. Much of it is perverse,

but perversity is not obscenity. Cranach wasperverse ; but what a fuss there would be if a

Post Office person destroyed a picture by Cranach !

No exception can be taken on moral grounds to

the bulk of Rops' output. Finally, I am in a

position to say that a very high official of thePost Office and a very high official of the British

Museum have both expressed grave disapproba-

tion of the Rops-Illingworth incident. As well

they might ! But more than an expression of

disapproval is needed. Action is needed. AndI wish that some British Museum or National

Gallery official of sufficient authority (preferably

R 257


one with a title) would go to the excellent Mr.lUingworth and tell him gently, but firmly, that

in asserting that it needs no special training to

decide the question of obscenity Mr. Illingworth

was making himself and his department totally

ridiculous.

8 March 191 9.

258

SEX EQUALITYLondon is really a very remarkable city. The

other day, according to the papers, there was

trouble in a London restaurant because a lady

smoked therein. A waiter asked her to desist.

She refused. Then, according to his own account,

the waiter knocked the cigarette out of her

mouth. Who would have thought such an

incident possible, if it had not occurred ?

Nothing is commoner in truly fashionable

restaurants than smoking by ladies. But appar-

ently restaurants of a more bourgeois type have a

different code ; also the waiters thereof have a

different code. The sad fact is that the fight

for sex equality is not yet over. It is won, but

not finished, and a " sort of war " persists in oddcorners of the battlefield. And there are still

public places where even daring and desperate

women do not venture to smoke. A duchess

might smoke in a restaurant-car of a train, but

she would never smoke on the top of an omnibus.

Still, evolution proceeds. I can remember the

time when a lady who travelled at all on the top

of an omnibus risked her reputation in doing so.

29 March 1919.

259

FRENCH JURIESI DO not know anything about the inwardness

of the mysterious acquittal of the murderer of

Jean Jaures ; and probably if there is any inward-

ness, and if I knew it, I should not be able to

print what I knew. But, in spite of the usual

rumours, I am inclined to think that there is noinwardness worth talking of, and that the mystery

resides solely in the mentality of the Frenchjury. Justice and juries are not among the

things which they manage better in France.

Balzac, strangely, had a great admiration for

the French judicial system (criminal depart-

ment), but he did not hesitate to show its weak-

ness, as in the celebrated scene in which Madamede Serizy snatched the dossier of Lucien de

Rubempre from the hands of thejuge d'instruction

and threw it into the fire in the very room of the

frocureur-general. There are modern examples

of Madame de Serizy, and it is not surprising

that there should be, in a country where a judge

of the Supreme Court earns less than a Sheffield

steel-roller hand. Such details of Villain as have

reached London are sparse and unenlighten-

ing. One would like especially to know some-

thing about the class-composition of the jury.

But whatever this may have been I do not

hesitate to say that the jury was less judicial

than the least judicial English jury that ever sat.

English juries, like English committees, have a

quality of fundamental common sense that is

entirely unknown in similar French bodies in

260

FRENCH JURIES

France. And they can keep to the point. In

fact, they are often more judicial than English

judges. French juries are always under the

illusion that they are taking part in a drama byHenri Bernstein, and no travesty of a trial that

was ever seen on the English emotional stage

could approach in sheer fustian the realities

of an ordinary French trial. Indeed, a goodFrench actor is merely a French barrister whohas missed his vocation. The jury that acquitted

Villain no doubt thought that it was accomplish-

ing a beau geste. The whole thing is a mostdisquieting symptom of French nerves at the

present time.

5 April 1 91 9.

261

IN THE TUBETo-day I had three journeys in the Tube

railway. Coming from Hammersmith, the

carriage being not full, there were seven or

eight women, and I had the opportunity of

examining all of them. The Tube is much better

than a bus for these inquisitions, because you are

not so close to the people opposite you, and can

therefore spy with more freedom. Curious howone can see one's own traits (as one ought) in

all the people one meets ! (Compare Emerson's

essay on " History," where the idea is treated

with the finest philosophic grandeur.) I wasspecially attracted, and repelled, by a fat youngwoman. I only knew she was young by the

beauty of her fair complexion. She was amor-phous, and in the matter of clothes her

chief idea seemed to be to make herself look as

old as possible. Her boots were sound, but all

wrinkles and creases, and unevenly laced. Shemust have thought very highly of herself, andshe must have been very narrow-minded. Also,

incapable of tender emotion—unless over a

baby. She was the sort of girl who while being

made love to would calmly reflect that to-morrowwas the day for cleaning the parlour. Everywoman has charm somewhere, but this one hadas little as it is possible for a young woman with a

good complexion to have. She must be always

quite sure of herself. She would never give

way—until she had to—and when giving wayshe would be forcibly-feeble, as we almost all

262

IN THE TUBE

are. I could not help thinking of Mr. BonarLaw who in the Commons last night said withforcible-feebleness that the Government hadcounted the cost of letting the hunger-strike at

Mountjoy prison run its course—to death if

necessary—and that nothing would make themalter their decision. . . . And all the time heand the Government were trembling at the

spectacle of a whole nation raging against themand a whole nation on strike against the Mountjoyregime, and to-day the papers are full of reports

of Governmental concessions to the hunger-strikers. The Government appeared to me to be

comically like that fat, obstinate, repellent, self-

satisfied girl. I don't know why, but it was so.

I would lay anything that the fat girl had sized

up all the other women in the carriage un-favourably, and set them down as the silly woman,the namby-pamby woman, the powdered woman,the no-better-than-she-should-be woman, the

irresponsible woman, the untidy woman, the

grinning woman, etc. In that fat girl I could

decipher all my own baser prejudices and myunshakable good-conceit of myself.

263

RITUALISMJust as I was arriving at my tailor's yesterday

morning an automobile stopped at the door.

The owner jumped out—he looked young, but

I could only see his back—and he was followed

by a valet bearing a suit-case. In addition to

the chauffeur the automobile carried a footmandressed to match the chauffeur. Three grown-upmen, and a machine weighing a ton and three

quarters, to move another grown-up man from his

house to his tailor's ! I had a natural curiosity to

see that customer, but though I entered the estab-

lishment immediately after him, he had already

vanished, together with the valet and the suit-

case. When I asked for Mr. Melchizidek—Mr.Melchizidek being the expert who fits the upperpart of my body—I was apologetically told that

Mr. Melchizidek was engaged, but hoped to be

free in a few moments. I sat on the cushioning

of the club-fender and beheld the shop. In

the middle a bookstand holding the MorningPost, the Daily Telegraph, the Illustrated LondonNews, and beneath these such grave tomesas Burke's Landed Gentry, Debrett, the Post

Office Guide (in a leather case). On the walls,

no water-colours by Brabazon or Conder, nofashion-plates, but gold-framed royal patents

authentically signed by private secretaries andgrand chamberlains. The shop seemed to be

full of an atmosphere of unrest and excitement,

even of apprehension. The dignified employees

who neither cut out nor fit nor stitch, but merely

264

RITUALISM

attend, moved somewhat feverishly and mysteri-

ously to and fro. I saw a court coat of black

velvet whisked on a menial arm through the shop.

The valet from the automobile passed through,

outwards, hat in hand. I feared I might have

to wait a long time. But no. In a very few

moments Mr. Melchizidek appeared and led meinto a trying-on cubicle. Mr. Melchizidek had" succeeded " with me. Nevertheless he was

nervous. At the end of the seance, he said, with

an uneasy laugh :" Very busy this morning,

sir. King's levee. First since the beginning of

the war." All was explained. A quite simple

explanation, only I had never thought of it. I

recalled that a detachment of cavalry with

orchestra and colours had gone down GeorgeStreet at 10.30 o'clock. Mr. Melchizidek added :

"I have to dress Sir Blank Blank." "Who'she ?

" I asked casually. " Well, sir, all I rightly

know is he's just been made a knight." " Neverheard of him !

" I said, still more casually. Nota tactful remark on my part. Mr. Melchizidek

simply didn't know what to say.

The following is part of the official account of

the Levee, which I read to-day in the Times :

" His Majesty also received Colonel Sir

Henry Fletcher and Colonel St. John Gore,

Standard Bearer and Clerk of the Chequeand Adjutant of His Majesty's Bodyguardof the Hon. Corps of Gentlemen at Arms,and presented them with the respective

265


Sticks of Office. These Officers were intro-

duced into His Majesty's presence by LordColebrooke, the Captain of the Gentlemenat Arms, and having been named to the

King by the Lord Chamberlain, kissed hands

on their appointments."

One has sometimes the most unexpected

glimpses of interesting unknown worlds.

266

THE PRIZE FIGHTDuring the last stage of the dinner the host

came round to you and said, in that politely

casual tone of a man who knows more than youdo, but who would not like the fact to appear :

*' Got your ticket safe ? Might be as well to

keep an eye on it till you're inside." You then

divined that you were about to enter another

world, a world where the eruptive potentialities

of the social organism may show themselves

more disconcertingly than in yours. And the

inflections of your reply tried to prove that youwere an accustomed citizen of that other world.

Later, the host said :" I brought a knuckle-

duster with me." He presented the steely

instrument for inspection. " You can do someuseful work with that on your fingers," he said,

and added fatalistically :" But, of course, it

wouldn't be any good if half a dozen of 'em set

on you at once." In answer to the naive inquiry :

" How do you get there ?" he said :

" Oh !

That'll be all right. I've got fifteen taxis at

the door !" Fifteen taxis at the door ! It

indeed is another world, and one which the taxi

driver comprehends and approves. Could any-

body get fifteen taxis at any door for an excursion

to the Albert Hall for a League of Nations meeting,

or to Lowndes Square to hear Robert Nichols

recite at Mrs. Kinfoot's ? Nobody could.

oThe crowds began long before the Stadium was

reached. The street was narrow and dark, and

267


in an empty space scores of huge policemen werewatching the eruptive potentialities. You clutched

your ticket, for, after all, it bore the figures

j^io, los. Still, there was no difficulty about

entering. You noticed the thick solidity of the

barriers panelled with barbed wire, but they

opened quickly for you, and the strong attendants

had none of the geographical indecisions whichcharacterise nonchalant programme-girls in fig-

leaf white aprons over short black frocks. As yousqueezed into the central enclosure of the

auditorium close to the ring (a squared circle),

where one of the preliminary bouts was in pro-

gress, the final attendant said quickly :" Sit down

here until the end of the round, sir." Ferocious

homicidal yells from behind reinforced him

:

" Sit down ! Sit down !" You sat down quickly

—anywhere. The attendant crouched on his

haunches. (This was not Tristan, of which ten

or twenty bars don't in the least matter. Thiswas pugilism, the most holy and impassioning

sacrament of its world.) A few seconds more andyou were in your seat, one of four or five thousand.

You realised that the affair had been wonderfully

organised and rehearsed.

In came Mr. Cochran, the mysterious organiser,

escorting the Prince of Wales, the Prince holding

a cigar just in the manner of his grandfather,

and Mr. Cochran looking rather like one of the

Antonines. Mr. Cochran gazed around at the

vast advertisements of his own theatres, and at

the cinema operators precariously suspended

268

THE PRIZE FIGHT

over balconies. Mr. Cochran had thoughtfully-

provided loops of rope for them to rest their

feet in. Mr. Cochran had forgotten nothing.

It was his hour. He deserved it. It pains meas a professional observer that I cannot recall

whether the Prince and Mr. Cochran woresmoking-jackets or swallow-tails. Opinion was

divided as to the sartorial proprieties. Somestar-actors and some millionaires wore smoking-

jackets ; some star-actors and some millionaires

wore swallow-tails. The millionaires were richly

represented. There they were, dotted about,

the genial wizards who have removed Arlington

Street from the map, who are said to have the

Government in their pockets, and who assert

with calm conviction that " Lloyd George can't

put it over themr Women were certainly too

few ; some had sought to atone for the paucity

by emulating the attire of the gladiators in the

ring. They made futile spots of sex on ten

guineas' worth of plush in an environment whereAphrodite had no status whatever.

The raised ring was already well illuminated,

but soon many lamps that had been unlit fizzed

into activity, and dazzling torrents of bluish light

rained down a treble-X radiance on the battle-

ground. The cinema men prepared themselves.

The last of the preliminary bouts finished. AnM.C. climbed into the ring and besought the

audience to stop smoking, so that the championsabout to dispute the mastery of a continent

might breathe more easily. The celebrated Mr.269


B. J. Angle, whose word was to be law to the

champions, climbed into the ring and delivered

a short homily. Mr. B. J. Angle was evidently

a man who knew his own mind, and who also

knew his world. Some persons were pained

because he wore a grey suit and brown boots at

10 p.m. in the presence of the Prince of Wales,

and they did not hesitate to express their narrow-

mindedness. A little box, covered with adver-

tisement, was deposited in the centre of the ring.

It contained the gloves. The sublime momentapproached. You had a unique sensation

;you

admitted to yourself that it was well worth ten

guineas, and also that the subject of the recon-

struction of Europe lacked actuality.

•^>

Beckett and train appeared first, and the train

was so numerous as to be bewildering. For a

moment you thought that both boxers and bothtrains must be in the ring. You understood

better the immense costliness of a really great

fight, and the complexity of the machinerywhich is necessary to perfect it. You perceived

that though ^8,000 was to be divided betweenthe combatants, neither would be overpaid whenhe had reckoned his time and discharged his

expenses. When Carpentier and train appeared,

the ring was like a market-place. One figure,

Carpentier, stood out astonishingly from all

the rest. All the rest had the faces andthe carriage of bruisers. Nobody could have

taken Carpentier for a boxer. He might have

been a barrister, a poet, a musician, a Foreign

270

THE PRIZE FIGHT

Office attache, a Fellow of All Souls ; butnot a boxer. He had an air of intellectual or

artistic distinction. And long contact with the

very physical world of pugilism had not appar-

ently affected his features in the slightest degree.

In the previous six years he had matured, but not

coarsened. He seemed excessively out of place

in the ring. You could not comprehend whaton earth he was doing there. Surely he musthave lost his way ! Beckett, a magnificent form,

with a countenance from which you would not

infer much power of ratiocination, gazed long

at Carpentier from under his forehead, whereas

Carpentier scarcely glanced at Beckett. At onemoment Beckett appeared to you like a dumbvictim trying to penetrate the secrets of a

higher and inscrutable power ; at another

moment you were persuaded that grim Beckett

was merely contemplating his poor destined

intellectual victim with the most admirable

British detachment. At one moment you felt

that Carpentier must inevitably be crushed

;

at another moment you were convinced that if

Carpentier was not too many for Beckett, thenthe course of civilisation had been very mis-

leading.

I know nothing about boxing ; my opinion onboxing would be worth about as much as Beckett's

on Scriabin. But I had seen Carpentier, in

191 3, when he was a boy, knock out BombardierWells at the National Sporting Club in less thantwo minutes, and the performance was so brilliant,

271


so easy, so natural, that I could not believe that

anybody else would ever knock out Carpentier.

Now, however, I was overborne by the weightof expert prophecy. All the experts were certain

that Beckett must win. Some of them mur-mured something perfunctory about the million-

to-one chance of an early knock-out by Carpentier,

but none of them had in reality any fear of

such a chance. I surrendered, and privily told

myself what a simpleton I had been to imagine

for a single instant that Carpentier would not

be smashed. (I forgot the peculiar accents in

which Lord Fisher said to me in 191 5, that his

life then was " nothing but one damned expert

after another.") Further, the experts killed

Carpentier immediately they saw him. Theysaid he was not in condition ; they liked not

the colour of his skin ; they said he had gone

right off ; they said he was a dead man. And I

submissively persuaded myself that this was so.

The ritualistic prologue to the encounter seemedto take a very long time. But it served ex-

cellently its purpose of heightening the excite-

ment of expectation. When the bell at length

rang, and Beckett and Carpentier approached

each other lonely in the ring, beneath a million

candle power of radiance, and the whole barbaric

Stadium was stilled, and hearts knocked re-

mindingly under waistcoats—in that moment,even those who had paid twenty-five guineas

for a ten-guinea seat must have felt that they

had got a bargain. ^

272

THE PRIZE FIGHT

There had been some grand fighting before

the big event, particularly between EddieFeathers and Gus Platts, and experts had said :

" This will be the best fighting of the evening.

You'll see. A championship match is never anygood.'' The devoted experts were wrong again.

In five seconds the championship fighting stood

plainly in a class apart, thanks solely to Carpentier.

Carpentier caught Beckett on the nose at once.

Beckett positively had to rub his nose, an act

which made the strong men around me shudder.

Beckett was utterly outclassed. He never hada chance. . . . The Stadium beheld him lying

prone on his face. And the sight of Beckett

prone, and Carpentier standing by him listening

to the counting of allotted seconds, was the

incredible miraculous consummation of all the

months of training, all the organisation, all the

advertising, all the expenditure, all the frenzy.

Aphrodite, breaking loose in the shape of a pretty

girl bien maquillee^ rushed to the ring. Menraised her in their arms, she raised her face ; andCarpentier bent over the ropes and kissed her

passionately amid the ecstasies of joy and dis-

illusion that raged round them. That kiss seemedto be the bright flower of the affair. It summedup everything. Two minutes earlier Beckett in

his majestic strength had been the idol of a

kingdom. Now Beckett was a sack of potatoes,

and Carpentier in might and glory was pubHcly

kissing the chosen girl within a yard of the

Prince of Wales.

273


We left the Stadium immediately, though the

programme of boxing was by no means concluded,

and in Red Lion Square found our taxi-driver,

whose claim to distinction was that his grand-

father had been a friend of Mr. George R. Sims.

All the streets of the vicinity were full of people

abroad for the event. They were all aware of

the result, for at the very doors of the Stadium,

on our emerging, a newspaper boy offered us

the news in print. They all stood or moved in

attitudes of amaze, watching with rapt faces the

long lines of departing motors. You perceived

that the English race was profoundly interested

and moved, and that nothing less than winning

the greatest war could have interested and movedit more profoundly. This emotion was no

product of a Press campaign, but the Press cam-

paign was a correct symptom of it. It was as

genuine as British fundamental decency. NotBeckett alone had been stunned. The experts

were stunned. Their prime quaUty of being

ever cheery had gone from them. They could

scarcely speak ; there was naught to say ; there

was no ground for any argument. They were

bowed with grief. Fate had heavily smitten

them. One of them murmured :" I consider

it's a disgrace to Great Britain." Another :

" It's the champion of Great Britain that's

been beaten. . . . This— after Mdlle Lenglen !

"

Where to go in these circumstances of woe ?

Obviously to the Eccentric Club. We went,

and were solaced and steadied with an aged

Courvoisier brandy. Sipping the incomparable

274

THE PRIZE FIGHT

liquid, and listening to the exact reconstitution

of the battle by the experts, I reflected, all solitary

in my own head, upon what, with such magnificent

and quiet hospitality, I had been taken to see.

Was the show worthy of the talents and the time

lavished on its preparation and accomplishment,worthy of the tradition, of the prowess, of the

fostering newspapers, of Mr. Cochran ? It was.

Was it a moral show ? It was—as moral as anInter-University Rugger match. Was it anaesthetic show ? It was. Did it uplift ? It

did. Did it degrade ? It did not. Was it

offensive f No. Ought the noble art to con-

tinue ? It ought. I had been deeply interested.

275

PATRONS OF THE OPERAThe social aspect of Sir Thomas Beecham's

very agreeable grand opera season at Drury Lanehas interest, A phenomenon that cannot haveescaped the notice of the less gaudy elements of

the audience is the presence on the principal

nights of hordes of persons whose notorious faces

are the innocent joy of readers of the Tatler

and the Sketch. These hordes occupy boxes,

usually many boxes, and I see no reason whythey shouldn't. But they all know each other

;

indeed, apparently they are all bosom friends.

And they seem all to suffer from an uncontrollable

desire to impart their sensations to each other at

the earliest possible moments. No sooner does

the curtain begin to fall on an act than they rush

out to impart sensations, and they keep on im-parting sensations until the curtain has beenlifted for a minute or two on the next act, whenthe doors of boxes fly open, waves of babble sweepacross the auditorium (for they have not finished

imparting sensations), and gradually they settle

down, with nods and smiles and glances of mutualesteem, into comparative silence. Further, theyhave, doubtless quite unconsciously, the air of

owning the entire enterprise. It is understoodthat the more prominent among them are " sup-

porters " of Sir Thomas Beecham. If, indeed,

this is so, I look forward to the time when Sir

Thomas will no longer need such supporters.

Sir Thomas's season at Manchester was an im-

276

PATRONS OF THE OPERA

mense success. In his witty valedictory speech

there he said that though Manchester was the

last place at which he would have expectedmiracles, a miracle had happened in Manchester.

1 6 June 1 91 7.

277

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sprang from the fact that Sacha Guitry is a

prodigy. Well, he is a prodigy all right. It is

indeed notable that he should be such an enter-

taining, lovable, and prolific dramatist andsimultaneously such a clever actor. But noprofusion of varied non-first-rateness piled

together can amount to the first-rate. Theopening plays were not first-rate and the acting

was not first-rate — and the setting of LaPrise de Berg Op Zoom was sinful. What was

first-rate in the productions was the ensemble

of the acting. Further, the work of the pro-

ducer was admirable. The French can produce

us and act us clean off the stage. They have

in them an innate superiority. Let us grant it

candidly.

When Lucien Guitry made his debtit in

Pasteur, he created the greatest artistic sensation,

apart from the Russian ballet, that the Londonstage has had for many years ; and he put Sacha

Guitry into a true perspective. Pasteur is

neither better nor worse than Sacha Guitry's

other successful plays. It seems better, but

that is because the subject is a noble subject.

Sacha Guitry shows in it that he can treat a

noble subject quite as sympathetically and as

engagingly as a hackneyed adulterous imbroglio.

The material extracted by him from Pasteur's

biography is magnificent, and he has handled it

with much dignity. He has not, however,

fused it into a dramatic entity. I heard that he

wrote the play in five days, and I can believe it.

280

THE GUITRYS

Upon what principle he selected the episodes

I could not divine, nor could I detect in the

piece either solid construction or dramatic

climax, or even development of character. Thedevelopment of Pasteur's character was indi-

cated not by Sacha, but by Lucien Guitry.

The play was episodically very effective, andit reinforced Abraham Lincoln in its lesson to

dramatists who are ready to follow new paths.

But I seriously doubt whether it will be con-

sidered effective twenty years hence. Neither is

it consistently even adroit. The oration of the

President of the Republic in the last act, in

itself tedious and unconvincing, seemed to stop

the action dead. And if the author was here

being ironic at the expense of Presidents, then

his irony was out of key with the situation.

Lucien Guitry as Pasteur was sublime. He was

just that. What a lesson in sobriety, in economyof means, and in the employment of over-

whelming individual force ! The greatness andthe personal distinction of Pasteur came over

the footlights unfailingly for two hours and a half.

It seems a great deal to say, but every momentwas perfect ; not the least note jarred. Thelong scene with the child who was the first

person to be saved by Pasteur's methods fromhydrophobia stands out among many very

beautiful scenes. It was ravishing. The author

had slightly sentimentalised this nevertheless

finely written scene ; the actor purified it of

all sentimentality. And Lucien Guitry is a

humorist, too. In the last act (apotheosis),

281

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEwhen his disciples were telling him in vaguegrandiose phrases of the acclamation awaiting

him in the great hall, the suspicious tone in

which the hater of " the big bow-wow " stopped

them with the simple words, " Je voudrais savoir

exactement ce qui va se passer "—this tone

brought the house down by its sardonic andbenevolent humour. The evening passed in a

crescendo of enthusiasm which was highly

creditable to the audience. Personally, in anexperience of over thirty years, I can rememberno acting equal to Lucien Guitry's Pasteur. I

said to one of the most brilliant performers onthe London stage—and especially brilliant in a

Sacha Guitry role :" What do you think of

it ? " He said :" I'll tell you what I think of it.

I think I've never seen any acting before."

282

WOMEN'S EDUCATION IN 1920

The daughter of a rich friend of mine cameto see us yesterday. Her age is sixteen, and she

is at a French " finishing-school " in Mayfair.

This school, which moved over here from Paris

during the war and will shortly move back again,

counts among the most fashionable establish-

ments of the kind, and is, I suppose, an example

of the best and costliest that the rich have

managed to get organised for the education of

their daughters in the mediaeval year 1920. It

has twenty-eight pupils. Miranda told us that

there were no rules. I discovered, however,

that there was at any rate one. Namely, that

pupils, out alone, may not acknowledge salutes

from male acquaintances in the street. I asked

Miranda whether if I met her she would cut me.She replied that she would not. Mistresses andpupils rise at about 8.30 a.m., but Miranda rises

an hour earlier in order to practise the piano,

of which she is very fond. She " learns " nothing

but music and French. Nothing. She shares

a bedroom with three other girls. All the pupils

are English ; but only French may be spoken

in the presence of mistresses, who nevertheless

are beloved. I should say that such a school

would " finish " any girl unless she happened to

have a very powerful and unfinishable personality.

The Renaissance seems nearly due.

283

BIOGRAPHYThe English craze for biography has been the

subject of much sarcasm and straight complaint

during recent years, but it continues to flourish

like golf. The reading public alone is to blame,

for if it refused to buy biography by the ton,

biography would not be written by the ton.

The latest example, and one of the supremeexamples, of the wrong way to be biographical

is to be found in Sir George Arthur's Life of LordKitchener. We used to resent two thick volumesfor one man's brief span, but now we have three

—super-thick. (\Ve have even six—the Disraeli

biography.) It seems seldom to occur to bio-

graphers that in the first place a biographer

should know how to write. Sir George Arthuris an amateur writer

;probably he could paint

just as well as he can write ; but if he painted

a portrait of Kitchener and exhibited it there

might be trouble. Not only he cannot write

—

he cannot compose, nor arrange, nor select,

nor sift, nor discriminate, nor exercise im-partiality. It may be that he knows more about

his subject than any other man ; the qualifica-

tion does not suffice. The great fact is that he

simply does not know his job. He has doneperhaps half his job—and the easier half—andhas left his readers to do the other half. Veryfew readers could, or would if they could, do the

other half. Nevertheless, Sir George Arthur has

received very high praise and the praise is worthless than nothing at all. He can at any rate take

284

BIOGRAPHY

credit to himself that lie has not wTitten the

worst and most misleading biography of a great

man in the English language. I surmise that

that distinction belongs to the author of the

official Lite of Lord Tennyson, or possibly to the

authoress of the official Life of G. F. Watts (another

trifie of three volumes). The Life of Kitchener

of course had to be -v^Titten, but many biographies

are published the justification for which is un-

discoverable. Continental nations seem to

manage without an annual plague of some scores

of biographies. Why does the British public

continue to make incompetent and unnecessary

biography so remunerative ? Conceivably the

reason is that the British public is more interested

than any Continental nation in politics and public

life, and also—may one say r—more interested

in literature. Hence it is more interested in

the fisTires of politics and literature. This

interest is creditable, unless it becomes morbid ;

there are those who assert that it has definitely

become morbid.

Practically all our biographies are too ponder-

ous ; most of them are amateurishly done. Abouthalf of them, and perhaps three-quarters, are quite

unnecessary, being begotten by family conceit

out of undiscriminating public taste. Now and

then an unnecessary biography enters into the

domain of righteous and sane literature by reason

of its intrinsic excellence. Instances of this

phenomenon are Carlyle's Life of Sterling, and\Ir. Winston Churchill's Life of his father. If

285


the British have a special racial gift for biography,

some born biographers might advantageously turn

to and till fields that even in Britain are neglected.

The greatest of all Christians, and one of the

greatest men in history, whose life was astound-

ingly picturesque, varied, and eventful, was

St. Paul. There is no first-rate full Life of St.

Paul in the English language. F. W. Farrar andThomas Lewin are, I suppose, his chief modernbiographers. Farrar is well known, and one

need not insist that his fifty-year-old biography

is of a popular and impermanent nature. Lewin,

his predecessor, is forgotten. And yet I muchprefer Lewin to Farrar. Lewin is delicious

;

he can still be read if he is read in the right

spirit. Here is a specimen of Lewin :" More than

eighteen hundred years have elapsed since the

hearts of all on board have ceased to beat ; but

imagination still pictures to itself the alternations

of hope and fear which must then have agitated

each anxious breast, as they waited impatiently

for the dawn of day to disclose to their straining

sight the features of the coast on which they werecast. The shore was close at hand, but betweenthem and it lay a yawning gulf." Etc., etc. It

is a nice question whether modern biographies

are more or less sublimely ridiculous than the

Lewins amid the yawning gulfs of the seventies.

286

THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS IN 1920

The following extracts from a public school-

boy's letters show what progress is being madein really influential circles by the idea of the

League of Nations. The second extract incident-

ally shows also how the Staff methods of 19 14,

191 5, and 1 91 6 still persist. First extract :" On

Tuesday there is a colossal field day ; 2200 school-

boys, 1500 attacking, 700 defending, HemelHempstead. Oundle provides the largest con-

tingent of the attack, 350 ; next is Harrow with

300. We are hiring the Northampton Volunteer

Band ior the day. We also take a Signalling

Section, of which I am a member, and specially

trained scouting parties." Second extract :

" The field day was quite a success as far as

exercise was concerned. It was a great rag.

But considered from the point of view of learning

the rudiments of attack it was a failure, because

Harrow and Mill Hill—among others—arrived

nearly an hour late, and thus rather spoilt affairs !

The Signalling Section did run out over a mile

of wire ; it did set up three signalling stations

;

it did communicate by flag. But the officers of

other schools did not appear to understand that

simply by speaking with a mouthpiece they wouldbe talking with G.O.C. attack. So we got very

few important messages."

oIt is perhaps unfair, perhaps unrealistic, to be

sarcastic about public school authorities because

they deliberately teach the favoured youngsters

287


of the nation to indulge in imitations of the

activities which have laid waste central Europeand which even at the present moment are re-

sponsible for the starvation and death of innumer-able children. (At any rate we may be thankful

that Hemel Hempstead was not put to the sack,

its library burnt, its girls deported, its old menshot in batches, etc., etc.) If the Governmentproposed to-day the abolition of the War Office,

^public opinion would overthrow the Government,and rightly. On the other hand, if the War Office

persists it must have its human material, and so

long as the existing social system remains un-modified it must have its human material fromthe public schools. Therefore the public school

authorities can make a very plausible case for

themselves. But if they inculcate the romanceand glory of war—" a great rag "—surely they

ought to give equal prominence to the rival

conception of a world-peace. Do they, does anyone of them, devote a whole day, or even half a

day or an hour (to say nothing of preliminary

study and training), to formal spectacular pro-

pagandisra on behalf of the League of Nations ?

The answer is No. If all the best public schools

were annihilated and their traditions annihilated,

the consequences would be evil, but evil ap-

preciably diluted vnth good.

288

THE DESIRE FOR FRANCEWhen one looks back one sees that certain

threads run through one's life, making a sort of

pattern in it. These threads and the nature

of the pattern are not perceived until long after

the actual events constituting them. I nowsee that there has been a French thread through

my life. Of its origin I can form no idea, for

neither my forbears nor the friends of my youthdisplayed the slightest interest in France or the

French. Yet when I was eighteen or nineteen,

and a clerk in my father's law office in the Five

Towns, I used to spend my money on Frenchnovels—in English translations. I was obliged

to be content with English t^aiislations^ because

I could not read French without a dictionary, a

book of idioms, and intense weariness. I hadbeen studying French almost daily for nine

years. I had passed the London Matriculation

in French—and let me say that the LondonMatriculation French paper is, or was, amongthe silliest and most futile absurdities that the

perverse, unimaginative^ craftiness of the peda-gogic mind ever invented. I knew an immenseamount of French grammar. Andi all my labour

was, in practice, utterly useless, jfin such wise

are living languages taught on\ this island. H\Nevertheless, I deeply enjoyed these secret ^

contacts with French thought and manners, as

revealed in French novels. The risks I had to

run in order to procure them were terrific.

Talk about leading a double life under the

T 289


paternal roof ! I had no need to inquire whethermodern French novels would be permitted at

home. I very well knew that they would not.

Victor Hugo alone would have been permitted,

and him I had already gulped down in three hugedoses. Still, my father was a very broad-mindedman for his epoch and situation. But there are

limits—anyhow, in the Five Towns

!

I used to order these perilous works from a

bookseller who was not the official family book-

seller ; and I used to say to him, as casually as I

could :" Don't send it up ; I'll call for it."

One Saturday afternoon I reached home earlier

than my father. This was a wonder, for it was

no part of my business to leave the office before

the head thereof. I was supposed to remain at

the office until he had thought fit to go, and then

to follow him at a decent interval. However,on that day I preceded him. Going into the

dining-room, I saw on the corner of the side-

board nearest the door—exactly where my father's

parcels and letters were put to await him—

a

translation of a novel by Paul Bourget which I

had ordered. I have never been more startled

than I was in that instant. The mere thoughtof the danger I was courting overwhelmed me.

I snatched the volume and ran upstairs with it

;

it might have been a bomb of which the fuse

was lighted. At the same moment I heard onthe glass panel of the front door the peculiar

metallic rap which my father made with his

ringed finger. (He would never carry a latch-

290

THE DESIRE FOR FRANCE

key.) Heaven had deigned to save me ! (Dis-

tinguished as Paul Bourget is, respectable as

he is, there would have been an enormous anddisastrov^s shindy over his novel had my father

seen it.J Wliether the bookseller had sinned

through carelessness or whether, suspecting

that I was ultimately bound for the inferno of

Paris, he had basely hoped to betray me to myfather, 1 do not know. But I think the kindest

thing I can, though to send forth a Frenchnovel without concealing it in brown paper wasperfectly inexcusable at that period in the Five

Towns.

Later I seemed to lose interest in Frenchliterature. It was not until I had been in Londonfor a year or two that I turned towards it again.

I remember making the delightful discovery that

a French novel could, after all, be read in the

original without a dictionary, provided one wascontent with a somewhat vague idea of the

sense. The first French book I ever read in

this way was Daudet's Fromont Jeune et Risler

Aine. I was then about twenty-three or twenty-four. Thenceforward I never ceased to read

French, and, by a well-known mental process, I

was continually learning the meaning of new wordsand phrases without consulting the dictionary.

I used to buy a French newspaper nearly every

day at a shop in Coventry Street. What I

made of it all I cannot now conceive. Gradu-ally the legend grew up around me that I wasan authority on French literature, and when I

291


became a reviewer French books were very

frequently sent to me for criticism, because of

my alleged special competence. I would go to

French plays in London. When indiscreet

persons demanded, " But do you understand ?"

I would reply, " Not all, of course." It was the

truth ; I did not^nderstand all. It was also

in essence a dreadful life, for I understood

nothing.

Strange detail ; I began to take private lessons

in German (in which language also I had satis-

fied the University of London). I chose Germanbecause I thought I knew enough French

!

Another strange detail ; I used often to say to

my friends, " As soon as I am free enough I

shall go and live in Paris." And yet I had nohope whatever of being able to go to Paris as a

resident. I doubt if I had any genuine intention

of going. But it was my habit to make such

idle forecasts and boasts ; seemingly they con-

vinced everybody but me. I think now that

something subconscious must have promptedthem. They have all been justified by events.

Chance, of course, has aided. Thus, from aboutthe age of twenty-five onwards I used to say :

" I shall marry at forty." I had absolutely

no ground of personal conviction for this pro-

phecy. But, by a sheer accident, I did happento marry at forty. And everyone, impressed,

went about remarking, " He always does what he

says he'll do."

292

THE DESIRE FOR FRANCE

Similarly, I did go to live in Paris. A remark-

able group of circumstances left me free from all

local ties to earn my living where I chose. I wasthen thirty-five. Did I fly straight to Paris ? Nota bit. I could not decide what to do. I went to

Algeria first. On_my way home I lingered in

Paris. I question if I was very powerfully drawntowards Paris at the moment. I had to come to

England to fulfil a social engagement, and then I

returned to Paris for a few days, with the notion

of establishing myself at Tours for a year or two,

to " perfect " my French. I remained in Paris for

five years, and in France for over nine years, liking

and comprehending the French more and more,

and feeling more and more at home amongjthem,until now I do believe I have a kind of double

mentality—one English and the other French.

Naturally, when I settled in Paris, all my friends

said again, " He always said he would do it, andhe has done it." My reputation as a man of his

word was made indestructible. Bui to me^ the

affair presents itself as chiefly accidental.

•^>

I had awful difficulties with the language.

Somehow, very illogically, I thought that the

mere fact of residence in Paris would mysteriously

increase my knowledge of the French tongue to

ja respectable degree. I remember I was advised

to haunt the theatre if I wished to " perfect"

my French. The first play I saw was EdmondSee's Ulndiscret at the Theatre Antoine. I

entered the theatre hoping for the best. I hadread the play in advance. I did not, however,

293

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEsucceed in comprehending one single word

—

not one. I had been studying French for nearly

twenty-six years. The man in me who hadwritten scores of " authoritative " articles onFrench literaturewas deeplyhumiliated. I at oncearranged to take lessons. Three or four nights a

week I was to be seen in the first row of the stalls

(so as to hear well) of the little theatres de quartier

round about Montmartre. I seemed to makeno progress for six months. Then, enchantingly,

I began to understand bits of phrases heard in the

street. I had turned the corner ! Heavenlymoment

!

294

PARIS FLATSThe world revolves very rapidly under its

appearance of stability. Only yesterday it seems

that I was settling in Paris. And yet then I could

buy Empire chairs {croisees) at sixteen shillings

apiece ; I could buy an Empire bedstead for a

couple of pounds ; and a beautiful dressing-table,

whose mirror was supported by the curved necks

of the Imperial swans, for three pounds ! If I

went to Paris now and asked dealers for Empirefurniture at such prices, I should be classed as a

lunatic. I had lived in an hotel overlooking the

Seine for some time, and I was taking possession

of a flat and furnishing it. I chose the Empirestyle for the furniture because I wanted a Frenchstyle, and the Empire style was the only style

within the means of a man who had to earn his

living by realistic fiction. Louis Qulnze and Louis

Seize are not for writers ; neither is Empire, anymore ! To acquire some real comprehension of

a nation's character it is necessary to fit out a

home in its capital. The process brings you at

once Into direct contact with the very spirit of

the race. Especially In the big shops, which are so

racy a feature of Paris life, do you encounter the

French spirit, traditions, and Idiosyncrasy. Atsome of the big shops you can buy everything

that makes a home—except of course the second-

hand. But you must not traverse the Immemorialcustoms of home-making In France. Try to

depart from the rule, even as to servants' aprons,

atid you will soon see that mysterious powers

295


and influences are arrayed against you. TheRepublic itself stands before you in the shape of

the shop-assistant. France is a land of suave

uniformity. It is also at once the paradise andthe inferno of bureaucracy. There the bureau-

cracy is underworked and underpaid. All whichhas been said before, uncountably often. EveryEnglishman is aware of it. And yet no English-

man is truly aware of it who has not set up a

home in France.

For example, I wanted the gas to be turned

on in my flat. A simple affair ! Drop a post

card to the Company telling the Company to

come and turn it on ? Not at all ! I was told

that it would be better to call upon the Company,So I called.

" What do you desire, monsieur ?'*

" I am the new tenant of a flat, and I want the

gas turned on."" Ah ! You are the new tenant of a flat, and

you want the gas turned on. M. Chose, here is

the new tenant of a flat, and he wants the gas

turned on. Where should he be led to ?"

About a quarter of an hour of this, and then at

last I am led by a municipal employe, sure of his

job and of his pension, to the far-distant roomsof the higher employe appointed by the City

of Paris to deal with such as me. This room is

furnished somewhat like that of a solicitor's

managing clerk.

" Good morning, sir."

" Good morning, sir."

296

PARIS FLATS

" It appears, sir—M. Bennay, fourth floor,

No. 4 Rue de Calais, sixth arrondissement, is it

not ?—that you want the gas turned on. Will

you put yourself to the trouble of sitting down,M. Bennay ?

"

I sit down. He sits down." Ah ! So you want the gas turned on ! Let

us see, let us see"

Hundreds of such applications must be madeevery day. But the attitude of this ceremonious

official might be put into words thus :" A strange

and interesting application of yours—^to have the

gas turned on ! Very remarkable ! It attracts

me. The case must be examined with the care

and respect which it deserves."

The next moment the official astonishingly

rises and informs me that the papers will arrive

in due course. I depart. The papers do arrive

in due course, papers of all colours and all com-plexities. One or two tips, and I get the gas.

Electricity was not so easy. The Treaty of Berlin

did not demand more negotiations and diplomacythan my electricity.

On the other hand, I had no trouble with the

police. Every foreign resident must report him-self to the police and get a permit to exist. Themachine for preventing the unwelcome from ex-

isting in France is a beautiful bit of engineering.

I ignored the police and just went on existing.

Nothing happened. Yet sundry men must havebeen bringing up families and providing dowries

for their daughters on salaries which they re-

297


ceived for duties which included looking after

me.

I said that it was necessary to fit out a homein a country in order to comprehend the national

character. Perhaps that is not enough. Youmust get married in that country. Let nonesay that he knows his Paris until he has persuadedthe mayor of some arrondissement to unite himin matrimony to a woman. By the time theceremony is over, and the certificate issued, hewill be a genuine expert in the niceties of the

French temperament.

I 298

PARIS STREETSWhen from London I look back at Paris, I

always see the streets—such as the Rue NotreDame de Lorette, the Rue des Martjnrs, the RueFontaine, and the Rue d'Aumale (one of the mosttruly Parisian streets in Paris)—^which lie on the

steep slope between the Rue de Chateaudunand the exterior boulevard where Montmartrebegins. Though I have lived in various quarters

of Paris on both banks of the Seine, it is to these

streets that my memory ever returns. Andthough I have lived for many years in London,no London street makes the same friendly andintimate appeal to me as these simple middle-

class streets of little shops and flats over the

shops, with little restaurants, little cafes, andlittle theatres here and there at the comers.

The morning life of these streets was delightful,

with the hatless women and girls shopping, andthe tradesmen—and, above all, the tradeswomen—polite and firm at their counters, and the vast

omnibuses scrambling up or thundering down,and the placid customers |in the little cafes.

The waiters in the cafes |and restaurants werehuman ; they are inhuman in London. Theconcierges of both sexes were fiends, but they

were human fiends. There was everywhere a

strange mixture of French findustry (which

is tremendous) and French nonchalance (which

is charmingly awful). Virtue and wickedness

were equally apparent and equally candid.

Hypocrisy alone was absent. I could find more

299


intellectual honesty within a mile of the Rued'Aumale than in the whole of England. And,more than anything whatever, I prize intellectual

honesty.

And then the glimpses of domestic life in the

serried flats, poised story beyond story uponbutchers' and grocers' and confectioners' andmusic-dealers' and repairers' and drapers' andcorset-makers' and walking-stick-makers' and" bazaars "

! Thousands of half-visible interiors

within ten minutes' walk ! And the intense

mystery that enwrapped one's own house, reposing

in the immense discretion of the concierge—who,

by the way, was not a fiend. I never knewanything about the prodigiously genteel house of

which I rented a fragment in the Rue de Calais,

except that a retired opera singer lived over myhead and a pianoforte professor at the Con-servatoire somewhere under my feet. I never

saw either of them, but I knew that the ex-opera

singer received about a yard of bread every

morning and one and a half litres of milk.

Every afternoon and sometimes in the even-

ing a distant violin used to play, very badly, six

bars—no more—of an air of Verdi's over andover again ; never any other tune ! The sound

was too faint to annoy me, but it was the most

melancholy thing that I have ever heard. This

phenomenon persisted for years, and I never

discovered its origin, though I inquired again

and again. Some interior, some existence of an

300

PARIS STREETS

infinite monotonous sadness, was just at hand,

and yet hidden away from me, inviolate. When-ever I hear that air now I am instantly in Paris,

and as near being sentimental as ever I shall be.

My ambition had long been to inhabit the Rued'Aumale—austere, silent, distinguished, icy, and

beautiful—and by hazard I did ultimately obtain

a flat there, and so left the Rue de Calais. I

tell you, I missed the undiscoverable and tragic

violin of the Rue de Calais. To this day the

souvenir of it will invariably fold me in a delicious

spleen. The secret life of cities is a matter for

endless brooding.

The sole disadvantage of the ability to take an

equal delight in town life and in country life

is that one is seldom content where one happens

to be. Just when I was fully established in

my Parisian street I became conscious of a

powerful desire to go and live in the Frenchprovinces. And I went. I sacrificed my flat

and departed—in order to learn about the

avarice, the laboriousness, the political inde-

pendence, and the tranquil charm of the Frenchpeasant, and about the scorn which the country-

side has for Paris, and about certain rivers andforests of France, and about the high roads andthe inns thereon, and what the commercialtravellers say to one another of a night in those

excellent inns ; in short, to understand a little

the fabric of the backbone of France. I often

desired to be back again in Paris, and, of course,

in the end I came back. And then I had the

301


delightful sensation of coming back to the city,

not as a stranger, but as one versed in its devious-

ness. I was able to take up at once the threads

which I had dropped, without any of the drudgeryand tedium incident to one's first social studies

of a foreign capital. I was immediately at home,and I never felt more satisfaction in my citizen-

ship of Paris than at this period. It was also

at this period that I carried my Parisianism as

far as I am ever likely to carry it.

302

GRAPHIC ART IN PARISAfter an interval of a quarter of a century, I

had resumed, by some caprice, my early practice

in water-colour painting. One of my school-

girlish productions hung framed in the drawing-

room of a Parisian friend, whose taste was, at

any rate in this instance, unduly influenced byhis affections, but who had a large and intimate

acquaintance among the most modern Frenchartists—by which I mean among the school

known in England as the Post Impressionists, the

school which was guffawed at a dozen years ago

in England, was treated with marked respect bythe Times ten years ago; and which in a fewyears more will be worshipped in England as

ignorantly as it was once condemned. I had a

particular admiration for the water-colours of

Pierre Laprade, a hght of this school, and I told

my friend I should like to meet my hero. Nothingeasier ! We met without delay at lunch. Before

the lunch I had said to my friend :" On no

account let him see my water-colour."

My friend answered : "I shall most assuredly

show him your water-colour."

I pretended to be desolated ; but, naturally

with the naive hopefulness of the rank amateur,

I was secretly pleased. My hero was led to mywater-colour, and gazed thereat with indifferent

disapproval.

303

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED ME" Monsieur," he said to me, " you have three

times too much cleverness, and your work is

utterly without interest."

It is scarcely credible, but I felt flattered. I

was enchanted that I had three times too muchcleverness. M. Laprade and I grew friendly ; I

visited his studio. We discussed art.

" The only advice I can offer to you," he

said, " is to wait until you are conscious of an

emotion before an object, and then paint whatyou feel."

Shortly afterwards I happened to be conscious

of an emotion before an object—namely, the

courtyard of the old house in Paris where I was

living. So I painted what I felt one Decemberafternoon. I then invited M. Laprade to lunch,

and left the water-colour lying about. He spied

it quickly enough." Mon Dieu ! " he cried, too amiably excited.

" You've done it ! Oh, you've done it this time !

Tres hien ! Tres bien I Very interesting ! Verit-

ably interesting !

"

(I should have kept this masterpiece as a sort

of milestone in my swift career as a Post Im-pressionist, had not my American publisher

caught sight of it and walked off with it, un-

intimidated by its post-impressionism. " I shall

use this as a ' jacket ' [paper covering] for one of

your books," he said. And he did. He had it

reproduced in colours, and calmly placed it onthe bookstalls of the United States. I learnt

afterwards that it was considered by trade

experts as among the best commercial " jackets"

304

GRAPHIC ART IN PARIS

of its season. Such can be the fruits of an

emotion !)

My hero suggested that if I wished to take

painting seriously I might attend the Post

Impressionist Academy of which he was a pro-

fessor. I was afraid ; but, being ashamed of mytimidity, I said I would go with the greatest

pleasure. He took me. I entered the studio

under his majestic aegis as his -protege. It was a

fearful moment. I was ten times more nervous

than I have ever been when called before the

curtain of a theatre. I trembled, literally. It

seemed absurd that I, a school-girlish amateur,

should be there in that most modern of Parisian

studios as a serious student of art. However, I

had burnt my boats. I had to summon mymanhood and begin a charcoal drawing of the

model, a young Italian girl. I scarcely knew whatI was doing. I glanced surreptitiously at the

other students—about a dozen or so. The other

students glanced surreptitiously at me. Theywere all young, extraordinarily young whencompared with myself. I knew then that I wasmiddle-aged. The studio was large and of ir-

regular shape, and the stove was red-hot. Twoyoung men in yellow smocks were painting, close

together, and two other men sat behind, smoking,

restlessly getting up and sitting down again.

Silence. Dusk (3.50 p.m.). I looked about me.There were large photographs of modern master-

pieces on the walls, a table with reviews on it,

dumb-bells on the floor close to, a fiddle-case

u 305


and a volume of Mozart on a shelf. At the

second " rest " I persuaded myself that it wasabsurd to be discountenanced hy a pack of boys.

So I joined a group of them in the jauntiest

manner I could assume and made artistic small-

talk.

" Come and have a look at my drawing," I

said, in a humorous tone. " Criticise it." (M.Laprade had disappeared.)

They came, politely. They gazed at the thing

and said not a word." Of course, the head's too small," I remarked

airily.

" In effect," said one of them gravely, " the

head is rather small."

Nobody said anything else. The sitting wasresumed.

Going home M. Laprade advised me to paint a

water-colour of the Tuileries gardens from the

Pavilion des Arts Decoratifs. Also to go andexamine carefully the Delacroix at St. Sulpice,

and then get a photograph of it, and do a water-

colour interpretation of it from memory at home.We called at a colour-maker's to buy sketch-books,

etc. His demeanour towards the respectful andsomewhat intimidated students had been quite

informal, or nearly so. He told me that whenhe first came to Paris, there would be a great

crowd of students in a large atelier ; a professor

(of German aspect) would come in ; all the

students would stand up ; and the professor

would march about curtly from one canvas to

306

GRAPHIC ART IN PARIS

the next, making such remarks as, " That leg is

too short."

It might be thought that after this baptism

into a cult so acutely Parisian, I should have felt

myself more than ever firmly rooted in the soil

of France. But it was not so. For several

years there had been gradually germinating in

my mind the conviction that I should be com-pelled by some obscure instinct to return to

England, where, unhappily, art is not cherished

as in France. I had a most disturbing suspicion

that I was losing touch with England, and that

my (literary) work would soon begin to suffer

accordingly. And one day I gave notice to mylandlady, and then I began to get estimates for

removing my furniture and books. And then I

tried to sell to my landlady the fittings of the

admirable bathroom which I had installed in

her house, and she answered me that she had nodesire for a bathroom in her house, and would I

take the fittings away ? And then I unhookedmy pictures and packed my books. And, lastly,

the removers came and turned what had been a

home into a litter of dirty straw. And I sawthe tail of the last van as it rounded the corner.

And I gave up my keys so bright with use. AndI definitely quitted the land where eating andlove are understood, where art and learning are

honoured, where women well dressed and without

illusions are not rare, where thrift flourishes,

where politeness is practised, and where poHtics

are shameful and grotesque. I return merely

307


as a visitor. I should probably have enjoyed

myself more in France, only I prefer to live in

England and regret France than to live in France

and regret England. I think the permanentexile is a pathetic figure. I suppose I have a

grim passion for England. But I know whyFrance is the darling of nations.

308

PLAYERS AND AUTHORSI SAW on a bus an advertisement of a play

called Come Out of the Kitchen. Above the

title was the name in very prominent characters

of Miss Gertrude Elliott. Below the title was

a line in characters so tiny that I could not

decipher them. However, the bus stopped.

I went close, and read the name of Alice DuerMiller, known only to me from the fact that I

had often seen it in the American papers attached

to the question :" Are women people ?

" It

may be, on the other hand it may not be, that

Miss Alice Duer Miller has a clause in her play-

contracts, as I have in mine, obliging the

theatrical manager producing the play to print

the name of the author on all advertising matter.

In either case, the appearance of Miss Alice

Duer Miller's name on that particular advertise-

ment was as nearly perfectly futile as makes nomatter, for not one person in a thousand wouldread it or notice it at all. There can be nodoubt that in Great Britain the name of Miss

Gertrude Elliott has incomparably more adver-

tising value than that of Miss Alice Duer Miller.

But even so the disproportion between the types

of the two names was excessive. I am not,

however, among those playwrights who kick

angrily against the great importance given to

309

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEplayers in theatrical advertising. Theatrical

advertising is mainly under the control of players,

who are human. If it was under the control of

authors, players would not have much of a show,

authors being equally human. And there is a

good reason for the players' advantage ; the

public is more interested in players than in

authors. It sees players ; it likes them, loves

them, worships them. Players feast the eye.

Authors are seldom seen ; discreet authors never.

And when authors are seen they amount to

nothing at all as a spectacle. I once lately

" appeared," against my will, after a first per-

formance. Some said maliciously that the un-

willingness was unreal. This was nothing. Butone reporter stated that I was wearing a blue

shirt—naughty fabrication which I felt com-pelled to contradict.

Nevertheless, although I fully admit the

superior advertising value of players' names

—

Barrie himself has never got more than even with

his interpreters in size of type—I do not think

that players are more important than authors

to the success of a play. A good play may andsometimes does triumph over bad players ; but

the greatest player cannot make the public go

to see a play that it has decided it doesn't wantto see—at any rate in sufficient numbers to

put money into the purse of the manager. Somemanagers are, if possible, more human than

either actors or authors, and here (reproduced

310

PLAYERS AND AUTHORS

with typographical exactitude) are two examples

of their humanness

:

ALDWYCH THEATRE. Cent. 7170. Gerr. 2315.

Sole Lessee and Licensee, Charles B. Cochran.

MONDAY, AUGUST 9th, at 8.30.

By arrangement with R. E. Jeffrey.

MISS VIOLA TREEpresents a new play in Three Acts,

THE UJSTKNO WN,

By W. Somerset Maugham.

APOLLO. JTTI''Lessees and Managers, Geo. Grossmlth and Ed. Laur.Uard.

NIGHTLY, 8.15. MATS., WEU., SAT., 2.30.

CHARLES B. COCHRAN'S

CHERR KA Musical Comedy in Three Acts.

By Edward Knoblock. Music by Melville Gideon.

Not Mr. Knoblock's Cherry, nor Mr. Gideon's,

but Mr. Cochran's ! . . • Nay, sometimes

managers entirely suppress all names save their

own. This may be business, but I do not think

it is. I hesitate to call it megalomama, but

it is nearer megalomania than business. 1 have

thought of inserting a clause m ^7 contracts to

the effect that my name shall be printed at least

half as large as that of any player or manager

This would coincide fairly well with my idea

of a good subtle joke.

311

HENRY JAMESHenry James's Letters are the talk of the

moment. I think they are taken too solemnly

and that the editor has taken them too piously.

The fault of the editor, if it is one, may be excused.

Very many of the letters are admirable, but very

many of them grate on the sensibility by reason

of the tone of ecstatic friendship, and of the

ecstatic appreciation of the work of friends,

which abound in them. It would be almost

cruel to give quotations, for some of the phrasing

borders on the grotesque. Several of the corre-

spondents in whom James apparently delighted

were or are mediocrities of an exacerbating kind.

His affections often overbore his unquestionable

critical faculty. Thus he spoke highly of E. A.

Abbey's decorations for the Boston Public

Library. Now these decorations are merely andacutely ugly, as anyone may perceive by going

out on to the staircase of the said Library andcomparing them with the lovely frescoes of

Puvis de Chavannes. The explanation of this

sad shortcoming in the letters is perhaps to be

found in a sentence written to Mr. A. C. Benson :

" I respond to the lightest touch of a friendly

hand." He evidently did. I should not care

to insist unduly on the amiable weakness ; for

a fine, distinguished, and lovable personality

emerges from the general body of the letters;

and the justness of the man's powerful, even

ruthless, critical faculty is manifest again andagain. He is admirably discriminating, for

312

HENRY JAMES

example, on the books of his friend Paul Bourget

;

and he saw through the charming speciousness of

Stevenson's letters immediately he read them in

bulk. It is possible that he was a better critic

than a creative artist. His famous verdicts on

the younger generation of British novelists,

though naturally they showed that his ageing eye

had blind spots, struck me as really first-rate

criticism. I read them twice, with great care,

for personal reasons, and I was more impressed

the second time than the first.

oI have seldom been able to enjoy his novels,

no doubt because I simply could not read them.I was bogged finally half-way through TheAmbassadors (or was it The Golden Bowl ?), andthat was the end of James's fiction for me. I

can recall only two that I enjoyed

—

In the Cageand The Other House. I really did enjoy these.

I could surmount the excessive elaborateness of

the style, its multitudinous folds and pleats,

its determination never to say anything crudely

positive. Various great writers have been diffi-

cult. For instance. Doughty. But I want somereward for my trouble, and from James I too

rarely got any reward. He said somewhere that

the fault of the English novel was lack of subject.

This is just the fault that I should charge himwith. His novels did not seem to me to be about

anything. And when the subject was per-

ceptible it was usually a very obvious subject

—

as in most of the short stories. And did he in

fact create characters ? Do we remember his

313


characters as we remember the characters of

Balzac, Dostoievsky, Fielding, Dickens, Hardy,

George Moore ? Do we even remember their

names ? I don't, at any rate. I have a vague

souvenir of only one character, the Post Office

girl in the cage. I do not remember her name;

to the best of my recollection the author took

care never to mention her name. A pretty trick,

but immensely unpractical. I once told a

common friend that A Small Boy and Others was

rather difficult to read. (Had I been generous

of the truth I should have said that I hadabsolutely failed to read it.) The friend passed

on my remark to James, and I afterwards learnt

that he was considerably perturbed by it

—

couldn't understand it.

The theatrical interlude in James's literary

career is very strange ; and in the light of the

letters it must be as disagreeable to his admirers

as it was to him. He thought he was hard upand precariously situated, though assuredly he

never was—judged by the standard applicable

to an artist. He always lived in a good quarter

and in comfort, and he always travelled a lot.

Still, he thought he was hard up, and so he sat

down to write plays for money. The votaries of

the cult try to gloss over this fact. But it

cannot be glossed over. " My books don't sell,

and it looks as if my plays might. Therefore, I

am going with a brazen front to write half a

dozen." And then, after the definite failure :

*' The money disappointment is of course keen

314

HENRY JMIES

as it was wholly for money I adventured."

I reckon this to be pretty bad ; but nobodyanimadverts upon it. Strange how one artist

may steal a horse while another may not look

over a hedge. Somebody of realistic temperamentought to have advised James that to write plays

with the sole object of making money is a hopeless

enterprise. I tried it myself for several years,

at the end of which I abandoned the stage for

ever. I should not have returned to it hadnot William Lee Mathews of the Stage Society

persuaded me to write a play in the same spirit

as I was writing serious novels. It was entirely

due to him that I wrote Cupid and Cornmonsense.

Since then I have never written a play except for

my own artistic satisfaction.

James asserts several times that he had mastered

the whole technique of the drama. He never

had. Not long since I saw The Reprobate. It

contained some agreeable bits ; but the spectacle

it provided of an unusually able and gifted mantrying to do something for which his talents

were utterly unfitted was painful ; it was humili-

ating. Half the time the author obviously hadnot the least idea what he was about. It may be

said that The Reprobate was not his best play.

It was not. But he committed it to print. I

daresay his best play was Guy Domville. Its

rehearsals and production by George Alexander

at the St. James's Theatre form the tragedy of the

Letters. I was present as a dramatic critic at the

first night of Guy Domville. One perceived and


admitted the fineness of the author's intentions

;

I know that I felt sympathetic towards the play

;

but it had a fatal fault ; it was not dramatic.

The house was full of votaries of the cult, and the

reception as a whole was very favourable. Thegallery behaved roughly ; but in those days

there was nothing at all unusual in that. Thegallery booed Henry James. Of course this was

sacrilege, but the gallery didn't know it wassacrilege. The gallery had probably never heard

of Henry James until that night. My memoryis not clear for details, but I have a kind of re-

collection that George Alexander made a speech

which annoyed me far more than the behaviour

of the gallery—a speech somehow apologising for

the play and admitting that it was a mistake.

(I will not vouch for this, but I do not see howmy memory could have invented it.) The wholeof the first night, and especially its culmination,

was horrible torture for the sensitive James.

But if he had known thoroughly the technique

of the drama he would have saved himself the

torture. Part of the technique of a thoroughly

equipped dramatist is never to go to his ownfirst nights. Having failed to make money out

of plays—and not, according to his own account,

having failed to write a good play, James aban-

doned the drama. This also I think was pretty

bad. I must further point out that James once

for commercial purposes altered the ending of a

play from sad to happy. Tut-tut !

<?•

I met Henry James twice. First in the office

316

HENRY JAMES

of Mr. J. B. Pinker. I was amused in secret,

because he was so exactly like the (quite good-

humoured) caricatural imitations of him byH. G. Wells. But I was also deeply impressed,

not to say intimidated. Although I was nearer

fifty than forty I felt like a boy. He had great

individuality. And there was his enormousartistic prestige, and his staggering technical

skill in the manipulation of words. He asked meif I ever dictated. I said that I could dictate

nothing but letters ; that I had once dictated a

chapter of a novel, but that the awful results

decided me never to try it again. He said I

might yet come to it. (I never shall.) He said

he knew just how I felt, and that he had felt the

same, but had got into the habit of dictation.

(Certainly some of his dictated letters are com-plex masterpieces of dictation—unless he revised

the copy afterwards.) He expressed stupefac-

tion when I said that I knew nothing about the

middle classes, and indicated that the next time

he saw me he would have recovered from the

stupefaction and the discussion might proceed.

Talking about the material for novels, he main-tained that there was too much to say abouteverything, and that was what was most felt byone such as himself, not entirely without—er—er—perceptions. When I told him that some-times I lay awake at night, thinking of the things

I had forgotten to put into my novels, he said

that my novels were " crammed," and that whensomething was " crammed " nothing else could

be put in, and so it was all right. He spoke with

317


feeling about his recent illness : "I have been

very ill."

At a later date, in the coffee room of the

Reform Club he came up to me and said :" You

probably don't remember me. I'm Henry James."I blushed. (Just as I blushed when in the stalls

of a theatre someone tapped my arm from behindand said :

" You don't know me, Mr. Bennett,

but I know you. I'm Ellen Terry." I think

that great legendary figures really ought not to

make such remarks to their juniors.) I have a

most disconcerting memory. I once met a manin St. James's Street and he stopped and I

stopped. I said :" You must excuse me. I

remember your face, but I can't think who youare." He replied : " You and I dined together

last night with our friend " But this manwas not a Henry James. And with all its faults

my memory was incapable of forgetting a HenryJames. He asked me if I was alone. I said I

had two guests. He said :" May I join your

party upstairs ? " I blushed again. It seemedto me incredible that Henry James should

actually be asking to join my party. We received

him with all the empressement that he desired.

He talked. He did all the talking, and he wasexceedingly interesting. He said that to himthe Reform Club was full of ghosts. He told us

about all the ghosts, one after another. Therewas no touch of sentimentality in his recollec-

tions. Everything was detached, just, passion-

less, and a little severe—as became his age. His

318

HENRY JAMES

ghosts were the ghosts of dead men, and his

judgments on them were no longer at the mercyof his affections. He was not writing to them or

to their friends. I doubt whether Henry Jamesever felt a passion, except for literature. I

doubt whether he was, in life, more than a

dilettante. And, if it was so, that is what is

the matter with his novels. They lack ecstasy,

I append here, exactly as it was printed, the

criticism which I wrote of the first performanceof Guy Domville.

The behaviour of the pit and gallery at the production by Mr.George Alexander, at the St. James's Theatre, of Mr. Henry James's

play Guy Domville was to me quite inexplicable. The piece is

assuredly not faultless—far from it ; but it is so beautifully written,

it contains so many exquisite scenes, it is so conscientiously andartistically acted, and so lavishly staged, that the longueurs of thesecond act, one would have thought, might have been either forgiven

or endured in respectful silence. I avoided coming to any hasty

conclusions, and therefore deferred my notice until this week. Theperiod of the play is 1780. In the first act we find ourselves in the

garden of Porches, where dwell Mrs. Peverel (Miss Marion Terry), a

beautiful widow, her little son, and the boy's tutor, Guy Domville(Mr George Alexander). Guy, though the bearer of an ancient

name, is poor ; we see him upon the point of taking Holy Orders.

Everything is, in fact, arranged, when enter Lord Devenish, a

messenger from Mrs. Domville, Guy's cousin's wife, to say that

through a hunting accident Guy is the last male of his line, and heir

to rich, though encumbered, possessions. Lord Devenish (Mr.Elliot) urges Guy that it is his duty now to give up the Church andmarry, in order to carry on the great family traditions. The conflict

between Church and family is movingly displayed. The family

wins, and Guy sets o£E for London with Lord Devenish, whose interest

in him, by the way, may be attributed to the fact that the aristocratic

and rascally old viveur is in love with Mrs. Domville, and has obtainedher promise to marry him if he can bring about a marriage betweenGuy and Mary Brasier, Mrs. Domville' s daughter by her first husband.

Guy goes to London, half aware that he is in love with Mrs. Peverel,

THINGS THAT HAVE INTERESTED MEwho is undoubtedly in love with him, though she has almost promisedherself to Frank Humber (Mr. Herbert Waring), an excellent youngsquire in the neighbourhood, whose suit Guy has himself pleaded.

The second act is tedious. We meet Guy gaily dressed, in the full

enjoyment of life and betrothed to Mary Brasier (Miss EvelynMillard). But Mary is in love with a young naval lieutenant, GeorgeRound (Mr. H. V. Esmond), and when, through plot and counter-

plot, and after much mock drunkenness between himself and Round,Guy gets to know of this, he assists the pair to make an entirely pre-

posterous and impossible elopement, and sets oflF to return to Porches

with a heart full of hatred for Lord Devenish and his schemingparamour, Mrs. Domville. Lord Devenish suddenly discovers that

it will suit his and Mrs. Domville's plans just as well if Guy marries

Mrs. Peverel. So he posts to Porches, gets there first, and advises

Mrs. Peverel to marry Guy. While they are conversing Guy it

announced, and Lord Devenish hides in the library. There is a

beautiful scene between Mrs. Peverel and the returned wanderer,

and Guy is just making open love to her when he sees Lord Devenish's

glove on the table. So Devenish has his finger in this pie also ! If

Devenish wants him to marry Mrs. Peverel then he will not marryher. The claims of his deserted Church rush in upon him, and he

goes away to seek ordination, his last words being a request to Mrs.Peverel to accept Frank Humber.

Such, brief and imperfectly, is the plot. The defects of its moti-

vation will be only too apparent. The whole business of LordDevenish and his schemes is quite " too thin." Why should a manof his habits, admittedly a guilty lover, and, indeed, the father of

Mary, wish to marry Mrs. Domville at all ? And, his plan for the

bartering of his daughter having failed, how comes it about that it

will suit him equally well if Guy marries Mrs. Peverel i The answer

is clearly : These things are so in order that the play may not cometo a dead stop. In the first act, the absurdity of Lord Devenish's

interference in the Domvilles' affairs is not completely apparent,

and consequently it is the best act of the three : natural, impressive,

and studded with gems of dialogue—gems, however, of too modestand serene a beauty to suit the taste of an audience accustomed to the

scintillating gauds of Mr. Oscar Wilde and Mr. H. A. Jones. Thesecond act is invertebrate, long-winded, and impossible ; and it

clearly shows that either of the aforenamed gentlemen, though they

may be vastly inferior to Mr. James as literary artists, could yet give

him some valuable lessons upon plot-weaving. When one considers

the unrivalled work which Mr. James has produced in fiction, onemarvels that he should have allowed this second act to get outside

his study. For the elopement of Mary and the lieutenant, arranged

in a moment, and, we are to suppose, carried out with complete

success, is really childish ; there is neither rhyme nor reason in it.

320

HENRY JAMES

The third act Is fitfully beautiful, and the closing scene, did we not

suspect that It was quite unnecessary, most touching.

As for the acting, Mr. Alexander carried off the honour?. His

performance was probably the best thing he has done ; It need only

be pointed out that his budding priest was more artistic than his

man of the world. Miss Marion Terry, with the Terry voice andmovement, could not fail to be charming as the widow, and she

showed a fine Intellectual grasp of the part. Mr. Herbert Waring,not a villain this time, was admirable as Frank Humber. Miss

Millard had small scope, appearing only in one act, as the eloping

maiden, but what she did she did meetly. Miss Irene Vanbrughworked marvels with the little part of Mrs. Peverel's maid ; while

Mrs. Edward Saker, as the despicable Mrs. Domvllle, was far, far

from successful. Mr. Elliot as Lord Devenish, and Mr. Esmond as

the lieutenant, were neither good nor bad. A final word of appre-

ciation for the scenery. The setting of the last act, the " whiteparlour " at Mrs. Peverel's home, Porches, was one of the mostperfect stage interiors I have ever seen.

321

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